DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Has Been
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

That melancholy phrase "It might have been,"
However sad, doth in its heart enfold
A hidden germ of promise! for I hold
WHATEVER MIGHT HAVE BEEN SHALL BE.
Though in
Some other realm and life, the soul must win
The goal that erst was possible.    But cold
And cruel as the sound of frozen mould
Dropped on a coffin, are the words "Has been."
"She has been beautiful" -"he has been great,"
"Rome has been powerful," we sigh and say.
It is the pitying crust we toss decay,
The dirge we breathe o'er some degenerate state,
An epitaph for fame's unburied dead.
God pity those who live to hear it said!
Accident In Art.
by Bliss Carman (William)

That painter has not with a careless smutch
Accomplished his despair?--one touch revealing
All he had put of life, thought, vigor, feeling,
Into the canvas that without that touch
Showed of his love and labor just so much
Raw pigment, scarce a scrap of soul concealing!
What poet has not found his spirit kneeling
A sudden at the sound of such or such
Strange verses staring from his manuscript,
Written he knows not how, but which will sound
Like trumpets down the years? So Accident
Itself unmasks the likeness of Intent,
And ever in blind Chance's darkest crypt
The shrine-lamp of God's purposing is found.
A Rhapsody Of Death.
by Eric Mackay

I.
That phantoms fair, with radiant hair,
May seek at midnight hour
The sons of men, belov'd again,
And give them holy power;
That souls survive the mortal hive, and sinless come and go,
Is true as death, the prophet saith; and God will have it so.
II.
For who be ye who doubt and prate?
O sages! make it clear
If ye be more than men of fate,
Or less than men of cheer;
If ye be less than bird or beast? O brothers! make it plain
If ye be bankrupts at a feast, or sharers in a gain.
III.
You say there is no future state;
The clue ye fail to find.
The flesh is here, and bones appear
When graves are undermined.
But of the soul, in time of dole, what answer can ye frame -
Ye who have heard no spirit-word to guide ye to the same.
IV.
Ah! facts are good, and reason's good,
But fancy's stronger far;
In weal or woe we only know
We know not what we are.
The sunset seems a raging fire, the clouds roll back, afraid;
The rainbow seems a broken lyre on which the storm has play'd.
V.
But these, ye urge, are outward signs.
Such signs are not for you.
The sight's deceiv'd and truth bereav'd
By diamonds of the dew.
The sage's mind is more refined, his rapture more complete;
He almost knows the little rose that blossoms at his feet!
VI.
The sage can kill a thousand things,
And tell the names of all;
And wrench away the wearied wings
Of eagles when they fall;
And calmly trace the lily's grace, or fell the strongest tree,
And almost feel, if not reveal, the secrets of the sea.
VII.
But can he set, by day or night,
The clock-work of the skies?
Or bring the dead man back to sight
With soul-invested eyes?
Can he describe the ways of life, the wondrous ways of death,
And whence it came, and what the flame that feeds the vital breath?
VIII.
If he could do such deeds as these,
He might, though poor and low,
Explain the cause of Nature's laws,
Which none shall ever know;
He might recall the vanish'd years by lifting of his hand,
And bid the wind go north or south to prove what he has plann'd.
IX.
But God is just. He burdens not
The shoulders of the sage;
He pities him whose sight is dim;
He turns no second page.
There are two pages to the book. We men have read the one;
The other needs a spirit-look, in lands beyond the sun.
X.
The other needs a poet's eye,
Like that of Milton blind;
The light of Faith which cannot die,
Though doubts perplex the mind;
The eyesight of a little child; a martyr's eye in dole,
Which sees afar the golden star that shines upon the soul!
The Scot.
by W. M. MacKeracher

That no Scotsman is perfect, we freely confess,
Nor has been since the time of the fall;
Yet we think, notwithstanding and nevertheless,
He is "nae sheep-shank bane," after all.
"Sic excellent pairts" as he has will atone
For the lack of a tittle or jot;
And, although we don't boast, it is very well known
For some things you must go to a Scot.
If you want a sweet song that comes straight from the heart
Of a man who had few for his peers,
An approved son of genius and master of art.
And a lover, with laughter and tears;
A song that gives honor to personal worth,
And ennobles the lowliest lot,
And makes brothers of all who inhabit the earth;
You must go "for a' that" to a Scot.
If you want a good story, entrancingly told,
By a genuine king of the pen,
A right royal dispenser of things new and old,
And a faithful portrayer of men;
A tale that will brighten your work and your play,
And will do what some others do not, - 
Give you knowledge and wisdom and heart for the fray;
You will go to Sir Walter, the Scot.
If you want the high spirit that scorns to make truce
With a foeman on suppliant knee,
The untameable will of a Wallace or Bruce,
Or the dash of a Bonnie Dundee;
Fierce courage that nothing on earth can subdue,
Sense of honor that shrinks from a blot,
Inexhaustible loyalty, loving and true,
You will find them to-day in a Scot.
If you want an intense love of country and kin,
An attachment as tender as strong,
That can gar the blood leap when the pipers begin,
And the tear start at sound of a song;
A grand patriotic devotion and pride,
That makes sanctified ground of the spot
Where a Scotsman for freedom has suffered and died;
You will find what you want in a Scot.
If you want a hale-bodied and clear-headed chiel,
Independent and honest and good,
With a hand that can do and a heart that can feel,
And tenacious of purpose - and shrewd;
Whose thrift makes the face of prosperity smile,
Who's contented with what he has got,
But is ready and careful to add to his pile;
You may find what you want in a Scot.
Gin ye wush a douce body, auldfarrant and gash,
Unco' waukrife and couthie and braw,
Ower eydent wi' daft clishmaclavers to fash,
Or to thole whigmaleeries ava;
Mak's nae collieshangie wad fley a bit flee,
But is siccer and dour as a stot;
Tak's the scone and the kebbuck and carries the gree;
Ye'll be spierin', gude faith! for a Scot.
Moments Of Vision
by Thomas Hardy

That mirror
Which makes of men a transparency,
Who holds that mirror
And bids us such a breast-bare spectacle see
Of you and me?
That mirror
Whose magic penetrates like a dart,
Who lifts that mirror
And throws our mind back on us, and our heart,
Until we start?
That mirror
Works well in these night hours of ache;
Why in that mirror
Are tincts we never see ourselves once take
When the world is awake?
That mirror
Can test each mortal when unaware;
Yea, that strange mirror
May catch his last thoughts, whole life foul or fair,
Glassing it - where?
Another (Epigrams On Windows)
by Jonathan Swift

That love is the devil, I'll prove when required;
Those rhymers abundantly show it:
They swear that they all by love are inspired,
And the devil's a damnable poet.
Lines Written At Thorp Green
by Anne Bronte

That summer sun, whose genial glow
Now cheers my drooping spirit so
Must cold and distant be,
And only light our northern clime
With feeble ray, before the time
I long so much to see.
And this soft whispering breeze that now
So gently cools my fevered brow,
This too, alas, must turn
To a wild blast whose icy dart
Pierces and chills me to the heart,
Before I cease to mourn.
And these bright flowers I love so well,
Verbena, rose and sweet bluebell,
Must droop and die away.
Those thick green leaves with all their shade
And rustling music, they must fade
And every one decay.
But if the sunny summer time
And woods and meadows in their prime
Are sweet to them that roam
Far sweeter is the winter bare
With long dark nights and landscapes drear
To them that are at Home!
Lines Written In A Storm At Sea.
by Thomas Moore

That sky of clouds is not the sky
To light a lover to the pillow
Of her he loves--
The swell of yonder foaming billow
Resembles not the happy sigh
That rapture moves.
Yet do I feel more tranquil far
Amid the gloomy wilds of ocean,
In this dark hour,
Than when, in passion's young emotion,
I've stolen, beneath the evening star,
To Julia's bower.
Oh! there's a holy calm profound
In awe like this, that ne'er was given
To pleasure's thrill;
'Tis as a solemn voice from heaven,
And the soul, listening to the sound,
Lies mute and still.
'Tis true, it talks of danger nigh,
Of slumbering with the dead tomorrow
In the cold deep,
Where pleasure's throb or tears of sorrow
No more shall wake the heart or eye,
But all must sleep.
Well!--there are some, thou stormy bed,
To whom thy sleep would be a treasure;
Oh! most to him,
Whose lip hath drained life's cup of pleasure,
Nor left one honey drop to shed
Round sorrow's brim.
Yes--he can smile serene at death:
Kind heaven, do thou but chase the weeping
Of friends who love him;
Tell them that he lies calmly sleeping
Where sorrow's sting or envy's breath
No more shall move him.
In A Whispering Gallery
by Thomas Hardy

That whisper takes the voice
Of a Spirit's compassionings
Close, but invisible,
And throws me under a spell
At the kindling vision it brings;
And for a moment I rejoice,
And believe in transcendent things
That would mould from this muddy earth
A spot for the splendid birth
Of everlasting lives,
Whereto no night arrives;
And this gaunt gray gallery
A tabernacle of worth
On this drab-aired afternoon,
When you can barely see
Across its hazed lacune
If opposite aught there be
Of fleshed humanity
Wherewith I may commune;
Or if the voice so near
Be a soul's voice floating here.
A Dream
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

That was a curious dream; I thought the three
Great planets that are drawing near the sun
With such unerring certainty begun
To talk together in a mighty glee.
They spoke of vast convulsions which would be
Throughout the solar system - the rare fun
Of watching haughty stars drop, one by one,
And vanish in a seething vapour sea.
I thought I heard them comment on the earth - 
That small dark object - doomed beyond a doubt.
They wondered if live creatures moved about
Its tiny surface, deeming it of worth.
And then they laughed - 'twas such a singing shout
That I awoke and joined too in their mirth.
Sonnet LXXIX.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Quella fenestra, ove l' un sol si vede.
RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.
That window where my sun is often seen
Refulgent, and the world's at morning's hours;
And that, where Boreas blows, when winter lowers,
And the short days reveal a clouded scene;
That bench of stone where, with a pensive mien,
My Laura sits, forgetting beauty's powers;
Haunts where her shadow strikes the walls or flowers,
And her feet press the paths or herbage green:
The place where Love assail'd me with success;
And spring, the fatal time that, first observed,
Revives the keen remembrance every year;
With looks and words, that o'er me have preserved
A power no length of time can render less,
Call to my eyes the sadly-soothing tear.
PENN.
That window where my sun is ever seen,
Dazzling and bright, and Nature's at the none;
And that where still, when Boreas rude has blown
In the short days, the air thrills cold and keen:
The stone where, at high noon, her seat has been,
Pensive and parleying with herself alone:
Haunts where her bright form has its shadow thrown,
Or trod her fairy foot the carpet green:
The cruel spot where first Love spoil'd my rest,
And the new season which, from year to year,
Opes, on this day, the old wound in my breast:
The seraph face, the sweet words, chaste and dear,
Which in my suffering heart are deep impress'd,
All melt my fond eyes to the frequent tear.
MACGREGOR.
Wild Duck
by Lola Ridge

I
That was a great night we spied upon
See-sawing home,
Singing a hot sweet song to the super-stars
Shuffling off behind the smoke-haze...
Fog-horns sentimentalizing on the river...
Lights dwindling to shining slits
In the wet asphalt...
Purring lights... red and green and golden-whiskered...
Digging daintily pointed claws in the soft mud...
... But you did not know...
As the trains made golden augers
Boring in the darkness...
How my heart kept racing out along the rails,
As a spider runs along a thread
And hauls him in again
To some drawing point...
You did not know
How wild ducks' wings
Itch at dawn...
How at dawn the necks of wild ducks
Arch to the sun
And new-mown air
Trickles sweet in their gullets.
II
As water, cleared of the reflection of a bird
That has lately flown across it,
Yet trembles with the beating of its wings,
So my soul... emptied of the known you... utterly...
Is yet vibrant with the cadence of the song
You might have been....
'Twas a great night...
With never a waste look over a shoulder
Curved to the crook of the wind...
And a great word we threw
For memory to play knuckles with...
A word the waters of the world have washed,
Leaving it stark and without smell...
A world that rattles well in emptiness: Good-by.
A Serenade At The Villa
by Robert Browning

I.
That was I, you heard last night,
When there rose no moon at all,
Nor, to pierce the strained and tight
Tent of heaven, a planet small:
Life was dead and so was light.
II.
Not a twinkle from the fly,
Not a glimmer from the worm;
When the crickets stopped their cry,
When the owls forbore a term,
You heard music; that was I.
III.
Earth turned in her sleep with pain,
Sultrily suspired for proof:
In at heaven and out again,
Lightning! where it broke the roof,
Bloodlike, some few drops of rain.
IV.
What they could my words expressed,
O my love, my all, my one!
Singing helped the verses best,
And when singing's best was done,
To my lute I left the rest.
V.
So wore night; the East was gray,
White the broad-faced hemlock-flowers:
There would be another day;
Ere its first of heavy hours
Found me, I had passed away.
VI.
What became of all the hopes,
Words and song and lute as well?
Say, this struck you, 'When life gropes
Feebly for the path where fell
Light last on the evening slopes,
VII.
'One friend in that path shall be,
To secure my step from wrong;
One to count night day for me,
Patient through the watches long,
Serving most with none to see.'
VIII.
Never say, as something bodes,
'So, the worst has yet a worse!
When life halts 'neath double loads,
Better the taskmaster's curse
Than such music on the roads!
IX.
'When no moon succeeds the sun,
Nor can pierce the midnight's tent
Any star, the smallest one,
While some drops, where lightning rent,
Show the final storm begun.
X.
'When the fire-fly hides its spot,
When the garden-voices fail
In the darkness thick and hot,
Shall another voice avail,
That shape be where these are not?
XI.
'Has some plague a longer lease,
Proffering its help uncouth?
Can't one even die in peace?
As one shuts one's eyes on youth,
Is that face the last one sees?'
XII.
Oh how dark your villa was,
Windows fast and obdurate!
How the garden grudged me grass
Where I stood, the iron gate
Ground its teeth to let me pass!
Gypsies Travelling
by Charles Baudelaire

That tribe of prophets with the burning eyes
Is on the road, their babies on their backs,
Who satisfy their appetite attacks
With treasured breasts that always hang nearby.
On foot, with weapons shining, go the men
Beside the carts in which their people lie,
With sorrow-laden eyes searching the sky,
Yearning for vanished chimeras again.
The cricket, as he sees them pass along,
Deep in his lair redoubles his shrill song;
Cybele, their friend, augments her greenery,
Turns rocks to springs, brings flowers from the sand
Before these sojourners, empowered to see
Their future darkness, that familiar land.
Lines.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
That time is dead for ever, child!
Drowned, frozen, dead for ever!
We look on the past
And stare aghast
At the spectres wailing, pale and ghast,
Of hopes which thou and I beguiled
To death on life's dark river.
2.
The stream we gazed on then rolled by;
Its waves are unreturning;
But we yet stand
In a lone land,
Like tombs to mark the memory
Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee
In the light of life's dim morning.
Possession
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

That which we had we still possess,
Though leaves may drop and stars may fall;
No circumstance can make it less,
Or take it from us, all in all.
That which is lost we did not own;
We only held it for a day - 
A leaf by careless breezes blown;
No fate could take our own away.
I hold it as a changeless law
From which no soul can sway or swerve,
We have that in us which will draw
Whate'er we need or most deserve.
Even as the magnet to the steel
Our souls are to our best desires;
The Fates have hearts and they can feel - 
They know what each true life requires.
We think we lose when we most gain;
We call joys ended ere begun;
When stars fade out do skies complain,
Or glory in the rising sun?
No fate could rob us of our own - 
No circumstance can make it less;
What time removes was but a loan,
For what was ours we still possess.
Translations. - The Tryst. (From Schiller.)
by George MacDonald

That was the sound of the wicket!
That was the latch as it rose!
No--the wind that through the thicket
Of the poplars whirring goes.
Put on thy beauty, foliage-vaulted roof,
Her to receive: with silent welcome grace her;
Ye branches build a shadowy room, eye-proof,
With lovely night and stillness to embrace her,
Ye airs caressing, wake, nor keep aloof,
In sport and gambol turning still to face her,
As, with its load of beauty, lightly borne,
Glides in the fairy foot, and dawns my morn.
What is that rustling the hedges?
She, with her hurrying pace?
No, a bird among the sedges,
Startled from its hiding-place!
Quench thy sunk torch, O Day! Steal out, appear,
Dim, ghostly Night, with dumbness us entrancing!
Spread thy rose-purple veil about us here;
Weave round us twigs, the mystery enhancing:
Love's rapture flees the lurking listening ear--
Flies from the Day, so indiscreetly glancing;
Hesper alone--no tattling tell-tale he--
Far-gazing, still, her confidant may be.
That was a voice, but far distant,
Faint, like a whispering low!
No; the swan that draws persistent
Through the pond his circles slow!
About mine ears harmonious breathings flow;
The fountain falls in sweetly wavering rushes;
The flower beneath the west wind's kiss bends slow;
Delight from each to every thing outgushes;
Grape-clusters beckon; peaches luring glow,
And hide half in their leaves, up-swelling luscious;
The air, which aromatic odours streak,
Drinks up the glow upon my burning cheek.
Hear I not echoing footfalls
Hither adown the pleach'd walk?
No; the over-ripened fruit falls,
Heavy-swollen, from off its stalk!
Day's flaming eye at last is quench'd quite;
In gentle death its colours all are paling;
Now boldly open in the fair twilight
The cups which in his blaze had long been quailing;
Slow lifts the moon her visage calmly bright;
Into great masses molten, earth sinks failing;
From every charm the zone drops unaware,
And shrouded beauty dawns upon me bare.
Yonder I see a white shimmer--
Silky--of robe or of shawl?
No; it is the column's glimmer
'Gainst the clipt yews' gloomy wall!
O longing heart, no more thyself befool,
Flouted by Fancy's loveliness unreal!
The empty arm no burning heart will cool,
No shadow-joy hold place for Love's Ideal!
O bring my live love all my heart to rule!
Give me her hand to hold, my every weal!
Or but the shadow of her mantle's hem--
And straight my dreams shall live, and I in them!
And soft as, from hills rosy-golden
The dews of still gladness descend,
So had she drawn nigh unbeholden,
And wakened with kisses her friend.
Senlin, A Biography: Part 02: His Futile Preoccupations - 04
by Conrad Potter Aiken

That woman, did she try to attract my attention?
Is it true I saw her smile and nod?
She turned her head and smiled . . . was it for me?
It is better to think of work or god.
The clouds pile coldly above the houses
Slow wind revolves the leaves:
It begins to rain, and the first long drops
Are slantingly blown from eaves.
But it is true she tried to attract my attention!
She pressed a rose to her chin and smiled.
Her hand was white by the richness of her hair,
Her eyes were those of a child.
It is true she looked at me as if she liked me.
And turned away, afraid to look too long!
She watched me out of the corners of her eyes;
And, tapping time with fingers, hummed a song.
. . . Nevertheless, I will think of work,
With a trowel in my hands;
Or the vague god who blows like clouds
Above these dripping lands . . .
But . . . is it sure she tried to attract my attention?
She leaned her elbow in a peculiar way
There in the crowded room . . . she touched my hand . . .
She must have known, and yet, she let it stay.
Music of flesh! Music of root and sod!
Leaf touching leaf in the rain!
Impalpable clouds of red ascend,
Red clouds blow over my brain.
Did she await from me some sign of acceptance?
I smoothed my hair with a faltering hand.
I started a feeble smile, but the smile was frozen:
Perhaps, I thought, I misunderstood.
Is it to be conceived that I could attract her,
This dull and futile flesh attract such fire?
I, with a trowel's dullness in hand and brain!
Take on some godlike aspect, rouse desire?
Incredible! . . . delicious! . . . I will wear
A brighter color of tie, arranged with care,
I will delight in god as I comb my hair.
And the conquests of my bolder past return
Like strains of music, some lost tune
Recalled from youth and a happier time.
I take my sweetheart's arm in the dusk once more;
One more we climb
Up the forbidden stairway,
Under the flickering light, along the railing:
I catch her hand in the dark, we laugh once more,
I hear the rustle of silk, and follow swiftly,
And softly at last we close the door.
Yes, it is true that woman tried to attract me:
It is true she came out of time for me,
Came from the swirling and savage forest of earth,
The cruel eternity of the sea.
She parted the leaves of waves and rose from silence
Shining with secrets she did not know.
Music of dust! Music of web and web!
And I, bewildered, let her go.
I light my pipe. The flame is yellow,
Edged underneath with blue.
These thoughts are truer of god, perhaps,
Than thoughts of god are true.
To .......
by Thomas Moore

That wrinkle, when first I espied it,
At once put my heart out of pain;
Till the eye, that was glowing beside it,
Disturbed my ideas again.
Thou art just in the twilight at present,
When woman's declension begins;
When, fading from all that is pleasant,
She bids a good night to her sins.
Yet thou still art so lovely to me,
I would sooner, my exquisite mother!
Repose in the sunset of thee,
Than bask in the noon of another.
The Sonnets LXX - That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect
by William Shakespeare

That thou art blam'd shall not be thy defect,
For slander's mark was ever yet the fair;
The ornament of beauty is suspect,
A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
So thou be good, slander doth but approve
Thy worth the greater being woo'd of time;
For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.
Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days
Either not assail'd, or victor being charg'd;
Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
To tie up envy, evermore enlarg'd,
If some suspect of ill mask'd not thy show,
Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.