DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Asphaltum.
by Joseph Victor von Scheffel

Bestreuet aie H'upter mit Asche,
Verhaltet die Nasen euch bang,
Heut giebt's bei tr'bfliessender Flasche
Einen bitumin'sen Gesang.
Strew, strew all your heads with ashes,
Hold your noses firmly and long;
I sing by the lightning's pale flashes
A wild and bituminous song.
The wind of the desert is sweeping,
Like fire by the dead Dead Sea;
There a Dervish appointment is keeping,
With a maiden from Galilee.
'Twas ever a salty engulpher,
In horrors excessively rich;
In Lot's time there were lots of sulphur,
And to-day it is piteous on pitch.
No washwoman comes with a bucket,
No thirsty man comes with a mug;
For the one who would venture to suck it
Would wish that his grave had been dug.
Not a breath of a breeze is blowing,
No waves on the waters fall,
Though a strong smell of naphtha is flowing,
They said, 'We don't mind it at all.'
Two dark brown lumps were lying
Like rocks on the Dead Sea shore,
And while tenderly loving and sighing
They sat down there - to rise no more.
For the rock was pitch-naphtha which would not
Allow them to stir e'en a stitch,
And seated in concert, they could not
Rise up above concert pitch.
Then all the disaster comprising,
They wailed aloud: 'Allah is great!
We stick and we stick - there's no rising,
We stick and forever must wait!'
There they sat like a lost pot and kettle,
Their wails o'er the wilderness passed;
They mummified little by little,
And were turned to Asphaltum at last.
A little bird flew for assistance,
Away to the townlet of Zoar;
But benumbed it fell down in the distance,
It smelt so, it fluttered no more.
And shuddering and pale as if flurried,
A pilgrim procession went in - 
From the smell of the benzine it hurried
So fast you'd not say 't had been seen.
MORAL.
In love or in turning a penny
Always study the field of your luck;
In petroleum and naphtha full many
Ere now have been terribly 'stuck.'
Translated From The German Of Joseph Victor Scheffel By Charles G. Leland.
Odes Of Anacreon - Ode XXXII.
by Thomas Moore

[1]
Strew me a fragrant bed of leaves,
Where lotus with the myrtle weaves;
And while in luxury's dream I sink,
Let me the balm of Bacchus drink!
In this sweet hour of revelry
Young Love shall my attendant be--
Drest for the task, with tunic round
His snowy neck and shoulders bound,
Himself shall hover by my side,
And minister the racy tide!
Oh, swift as wheels that kindling roll,
Our life is hurrying to the goal;
A scanty dust, to feed the wind,
Is all the trace 'twill leave behind.
Then wherefore waste the rose's bloom
Upon the cold, insensate tomb?
Can flowery breeze, or odor's breath,
Affect the still, cold sense of death?
Oh no; I ask no balm to steep
With fragrant tears my bed of sleep:
But now, while every pulse is glowing,
Now let me breathe the balsam flowing;
Now let the rose, with blush of fire,
Upon my brow in sweets expire;
And bring the nymph whose eye hath power
To brighten even death's cold hour.
Yes, Cupid! ere my shade retire,
To join the blest elysian choir;
With wine, and love, and social cheer,
I'll make my own elysium here!
Success.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Success allures us in the earth and skies:
We seek to win her, but, too amorous,
Mocking, she flees us. Haply, were we wise,
We would not strive and she would come to us.
Sublime Was The Warning.
by Thomas Moore

Sublime was the warning that Liberty spoke,
And grand was the moment when Spaniards awoke
Into life and revenge from the conqueror's chain.
Oh, Liberty! let not this Spirit have rest,
Till it move, like a breeze, o'er the waves of the west--
Give the light of your look to each sorrowing spot,
Nor, oh, be the Shamrock of Erin forgot
While you add to your garland the Olive of Spain!
If the fame of our fathers, bequeathed with their rights,
Give to country its charm, and to home its delights,
If deceit be a wound, and suspicion a stain,
Then, ye men of Iberia; our cause is the same!
And oh!    may his tomb want a tear and a name,
Who would ask for a nobler, a holier death,
Than to turn his last sigh into victory's breath,
For the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!
Ye Blakes and O'Donnels, whose fathers resigned
The green hills of their youth, among strangers to find
That repose which, at home, they had sighed for in vain,
Join, join in our hope that the flame, which you light,
May be felt yet in Erin, as calm, and as bright,
And forgive even Albion while blushing she draws,
Like a truant, her sword, in the long-slighted cause
Of the Shamrock of Erin and Olive of Spain!
God prosper the cause!--oh, it cannot but thrive,
While the pulse of one patriot heart is alive.
Its devotion to feel, and its rights to maintain;
Then, how sainted by sorrow, its martyrs will die!
The finger of Glory shall point where they lie;
While, far from the footstep of coward or slave.
The young spirit of Freedom shall shelter their grave
Beneath Shamrocks of Erin and Olives of Spain!
Hope Dieth: Love Liveth.
by William Morris

Strong are thine arms, O love, & strong
Thine heart to live, and love, and long;
But thou art wed to grief and wrong:
Live, then, and long, though hope be dead!
Live on, & labour thro' the years!
Make pictures through the mist of tears,
Of unforgotten happy fears,
That crossed the time ere hope was dead.
Draw near the place where once we stood
Amid delight's swift-rushing flood,
And we and all the world seemed good
Nor needed hope now cold and dead.
Dream in the dawn I come to thee
Weeping for things that may not be!
Dream that thou layest lips on me!
Wake, wake to clasp hope's body dead!
Count o'er and o'er, and one by one
The minutes of the happy sun
That while agone on kissed lips shone,
Count on, rest not, for hope is dead.
Weep, though no hair's breadth thou shalt move
The living Earth, the heaven above
By all the bitterness of love!
Weep and cease not, now hope is dead!
Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,
Life hath no joy, and Death no peace:
The years change not, though they decrease,
For hope is dead, for hope is dead.
Speak, love, I listen: far away
I bless the tremulous lips, that say,
"Mock not the afternoon of day,
Mock not the tide when hope is dead!"
I bless thee, O my love, who say'st:
"Mock not the thistle-cumbered waste;
I hold Love's hand, and make no haste
Down the long way, now hope is dead.
With other names do we name pain,
The long years wear our hearts in vain.
Mock not our loss grown into gain,
Mock not our lost hope lying dead.
Our eyes gaze for no morning-star,
No glimmer of the dawn afar;
Full silent wayfarers we are
Since ere the noon-tide hope lay dead.
Behold with lack of happiness
The master, Love, our hearts did bless
Lest we should think of him the less:
Love dieth not, though hope is dead!"
Safi
by Henry Kendall

Strong pinions bore Safi, the dreamer,
Through the dazzle and whirl of a race,
And the earth, raying up in confusion,
Like a sea thundered under his face!
And the earth, raying up in confusion,
Passed flying and flying afar,
Till it dropped like a moon into silence,
And waned from a moon to a star.
Was it light, was it shadow he followed,
That he swept through those desperate tracts,
With his hair beating back on his shoulders
Like the tops of the wind-hackled flax?
'I come,' murmured Safi, the dreamer,
'I come, but thou fliest before:
But thy way hath the breath of the honey,
And the scent of the myrrh evermore!'
His eyes were the eyes of a watcher
Held on by luxurious faith,
And his lips were the lips of a longer
Amazed with the beauty of Death.
'For ever and ever,' he murmured,
'My love, for the sweetness with thee,
Do I follow thy footsteps,' said Safi,
'Like the wind on a measureless sea.'
And, fronting the furthermost spaces,
He kept through the distances dim,
Till the days, and the years, and the cycles
Were lost and forgotten by him.
When he came to the silver star-portals,
The Queen of that wonderful place
Looked forth from her towers resplendent,
And started, and dreamed in his face.
And one said, 'This is Safi the Only,
Who lived in a planet below,
And housed him apart from his fellows,
A million of ages ago.
'He erred, if he suffers, to clutch at
High lights from the wood and the street;
Not caring to see how his brothers
Were content with the things at their feet.'
But she whispered, 'Ah, turn to the stranger!
He looks like a lord of the land;
For his eyes are the eyes of an angel,
And the thought on his forehead is grand!
'Is there never a peace for the sinner
Whose sin is in this, that he mars
The light of his worship of Beauty,
Forgetting the flower for the stars?'
'Behold him, my Sister immortal,
And doubt that he knoweth his shame,
Who raves in the shadow for sweetness,
And gloats on the ghost of a flame!
'His sin is his sin, if he suffers,
Who wilfully straitened the truth;
And his doom is his doom, if he follows
A lie without sorrow or ruth.'
And another from uttermost verges
Ran out with a terrible voice
'Let him go it is well that he goeth,
Though he break with the lot of his choice!'
'I come,' murmured Safi, the dreamer,
'I come, but thou fliest before:
But thy way hath the breath of the honey,
And the scent of the myrrh evermore.'
'My Queen,' said the first of the Voices,
'He hunteth a perilous wraith,
Arrayed with voluptuous fancies
And ringed with tyrannical faith.
'Wound up in the heart of his error
He must sweep through the silences dire,
Like one in the dark of a desert
Allured by fallacious fire.'
And she faltered, and asked, like a doubter,
'When he hangs on those Spaces sublime
With the Terror that knoweth no limit,
And holdeth no record of Time
'Forgotten of God and the demons
Will he keep to his fancy amain?
Can he live for that horrible chaos
Of flame and perpetual rain?'
But an answer as soft as a prayer
Fell down from a high, hidden land,
And the words were the words of a language
Which none but the gods understand.
Strike The Chords Softly
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Strike the chords softly with tremulous fingers,
While, on the threshold of happiest years,
For a brief moment fond memory lingers,
Ere we go forth to life's conflicts and fears!
Strike the chords softly! - yet no, as we tarry,
Swiftly the morning is gliding away;
Weary ones droop 'neath the burdens they carry,
Toiling ones faint in the heat of the day.
Let us not linger! - Earth's millions are crying
"Come to us, aid us, we grope in the night!
Come to us, aid us, we're perishing, dying - 
Give us, oh, give us, the heavenly Light!"
Let us not linger! - our brethren are calling, - 
"Aid us, the harvest increases each day; - 
Some have grown weary, alas, of their toiling! - 
Others have passed from their labors away."
Gracious Redeemer we go at thy bidding,
Gladly encountering peril and loss;
Take us - ourselves to thy work we are giving,
Giveus - 'tis more than we merit - thy cross!
The Good Craft Snow Bird
by Herman Melville

Strenuous need that head-wind be
From purposed voyage that drives at last
The ship, sharp-braced and dogged still,
Beating up against the blast.
Brigs that figs for market gather,
Homeward-bound upon the stretch,
Encounter oft this uglier weather
Yet in end their port they fetch.
Mark yon craft from sunny Smyrna
Glazed with ice in Boston Bay;
Out they toss the fig-drums cheerly,
Livelier for the frosty ray.
What if sleet off-shore assailed her,
What though ice yet plate her yards;
In wintry port not less she renders
Summer's gift with warm regards!
And, look, the underwriters' man,
Timely, when the stevedore's done,
Puts on his specs to pry and scan,
And sets her down--A, No. 1.
Bravo, master! Bravo, brig!
For slanting snows out of the West
Never the Snow-Bird cares one fig;
And foul winds steady her, though a pest.
The Night Dance.
by Thomas Moore

Strike the gay harp! see the moon is on high,
And, as true to her beam as the tides of the ocean,
Young hearts, when they feel the soft light of her eye,
Obey the mute call and heave into motion.
Then, sound notes--the gayest, the lightest,
That ever took wing, when heaven looked brightest!
Again! Again!
Oh! could such heart-stirring music be heard
In that City of Statues described by romancers,
So wakening its spell, even stone would be stirred,
And statues themselves all start into dancers!
Why then delay, with such sounds in our ears,
And the flower of Beauty's own garden before us,--
While stars overhead leave the song of their spheres,
And listening to ours, hang wondering o'er us?
Again, that strain!--to hear it thus sounding
Might set even Death's cold pulses bounding--
Again! Again!
Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay,
Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather,
Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,
And mingle sweet song and sunshine together!
Aperotos Eros
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Strong as death, and cruel as the grave,
Clothed with cloud and tempest's blackening breath,
Known of death's dread self, whom none outbrave,
Strong as death,
Love, brow-bound with anguish for a wreath,
Fierce with pain, a tyrant-hearted slave,
Burns above a world that groans beneath.
Hath not pity power on thee to save,
Love? hath power no pity? Nought he saith,
Answering: blind he walks as wind or wave,
Strong as death.
Songs Set To Music: 3. Set By Mr. De Fesch
by Matthew Prior

Strephonetta, why d'ye fly me,
With such rigour in your eyes:
Oh! 'tis cruel to deny me,
Since your charms I so much prize.
But I plainly see the reason
Why in vain I you pursued,
Her to gain 'twas out of season,
Who before the chaplain woo'd.
Smart.
by Robert Herrick

Stripes, justly given, yerk us with their fall;
But causeless whipping smarts the most of all.
German Genius.
by Friedrich Schiller

Strive, O German, for Roman-like strength and for Grecian-like beauty!
Thou art successful in both; ne'er has the Gaul had success.
Streams That Glide In Orient Plains.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Morag."
I.
Streams that glide in orient plains,
Never bound by winter's chains;
Glowing here on golden sands,
There commix'd with foulest stains
From tyranny's empurpled bands;
These, their richly gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle-Gordon.
II.
Spicy forests, ever gay,
Shading from the burning ray,
Hapless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way,
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil:
Woods that ever verdant wave,
I leave the tyrant and the slave,
Give me the groves that lofty brave
The storms by Castle-Gordon.
III.
Wildly here without control,
Nature reigns and rules the whole;
In that sober pensive mood,
Dearest to the feeling soul,
She plants the forest, pours the flood;
Life's poor day I'll musing rave,
And find at night a sheltering cave,
Where waters flow and wild woods wave,
By bonnie Castle-Gordon.
The Story Of Prince Agib
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Strike the concertina's melancholy string!
Blow the spirit-stirring harp like anything!
Let the piano's martial blast
Rouse the Echoes of the Past,
For of AGIB, PRINCE OF TARTARY, I sing!
Of AGIB, who, amid Tartaric scenes,
Wrote a lot of ballet music in his teens:
His gentle spirit rolls
In the melody of souls
Which is pretty, but I don't know what it means.
Of AGIB, who could readily, at sight,
Strum a march upon the loud Theodolite.
He would diligently play
On the Zoetrope all day,
And blow the gay Pantechnicon all night.
One winter I am shaky in my dates
Came two starving Tartar minstrels to his gates;
Oh, ALLAH be obeyed,
How infernally they played!
I remember that they called themselves the "Ouaits."
Oh! that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page!
Alas! PRINCE AGIB went and asked them in;
Gave them beer, and eggs, and sweets, and scent, and tin.
And when (as snobs would say)
They had "put it all away,"
He requested them to tune up and begin.
Though its icy horror chill you to the core,
I will tell you what I never told before,
The consequences true
Of that awful interview,
FOR I LISTENED AT THE KEYHOLE IN THE DOOR!
They played him a sonata let me see!
"Medulla oblongata" key of G.
Then they began to sing
That extremely lovely thing,
Scherzando! ma non troppo, ppp."
He gave them money, more than they could count,
Scent from a most ingenious little fount,
More beer, in little kegs,
Many dozen hard-boiled eggs,
And goodies to a fabulous amount.
Now follows the dim horror of my tale,
And I feel I'm growing gradually pale,
For, even at this day,
Though its sting has passed away,
When I venture to remember it, I quail!
The elder of the brothers gave a squeal,
All-overish it made me for to feel;
"Oh, PRINCE," he says, says he,
"IF A PRINCE INDEED YOU BE,
I've a mystery I'm going to reveal!
"Oh, listen, if you'd shun a horrid death,
To what the gent who's speaking to you saith:
No 'Ouaits' in truth are we,
As you fancy that we be,
For (ter-remble!) I am ALECK this is BETH!"
Said AGIB, "Oh! accursed of your kind,
I have heard that ye are men of evil mind!"
BETH gave a dreadful shriek
But before he'd time to speak
I was mercilessly collared from behind.
In number ten or twelve, or even more,
They fastened me full length upon the floor.
On my face extended flat,
I was walloped with a cat
For listening at the keyhole of a door.
Oh! the horror of that agonizing thrill!
(I can feel the place in frosty weather still).
For a week from ten to four
I was fastened to the floor,
While a mercenary wopped me with a will
They branded me and broke me on a wheel,
And they left me in an hospital to heal;
And, upon my solemn word,
I have never never heard
What those Tartars had determined to reveal.
But that day of sorrow, misery, and rage,
I shall carry to the Catacombs of Age,
Photographically lined
On the tablet of my mind,
When a yesterday has faded from its page
The Archers
by Emily Pauline Johnson

I
Stripped to the waist, his copper-coloured skin
Red from the smouldering heat of hate within,
Lean as a wolf in winter, fierce of mood - 
As all wild things that hunt for foes, or food - 
War paint adorning breast and thigh and face,
Armed with the ancient weapons of his race,
A slender ashen bow, deer sinew strung,
And flint-tipped arrow each with poisoned tongue, - 
Thus does the Red man stalk to death his foe,
And sighting him strings silently his bow,
Takes his unerring aim, and straight and true
The arrow cuts in flight the forest through,
A flint which never made for mark and missed,
And finds the heart of his antagonist.
Thus has he warred and won since time began,
Thus does the Indian bring to earth his man.
II
Ungarmented, save for a web that lies
In fleecy folds across his impish eyes,
A tiny archer takes his way intent
On mischief, which is his especial bent.
Across his shoulder lies a quiver, filled
With arrows dipped in honey, thrice distilled
From all the roses brides have ever worn
Since that first wedding out of Eden born.
Beneath a cherub face and dimpled smile
This youthful hunter hides a heart of guile;
His arrows aimed at random fly in quest
Of lodging-place within some blameless breast.
But those he wounds die happily, and so
Blame not young Cupid with his dart and bow:
Thus has he warred and won since time began,
Transporting into Heaven both maid and man.
Monument Of Mrs. Howard - By Nollekens - In Wetheral Church, Near Corby, On The Banks Of The Eden
by William Wordsworth

Stretched on the dying Mother's lap, lies dead
Her new-born Babe; dire ending of bright hope!
But Sculpture here, with the divinest scope
Of luminous faith, heavenward hath raised that head
So patiently; and through one hand has spread
A touch so tender for the insensate Child
(Earth's lingering love to parting reconciled,
Brief parting, for the spirit is all but fled)
That we, who contemplate the turns of life
Through this still medium, are consoled and cheered;
Feel with the Mother, think the severed Wife
Is less to be lamented than revered;
And own that Art, triumphant over strife
And pain, hath powers to Eternity endeared.
To the Reader
by Charles Baudelaire

Stupidity and error, avarice and vice,
possess our spirits, batten on our flesh,
we feed that fond remorse, our guest,
like ragged beggars nourishing their lice.
Our sins are mulish, our repentance vain:
we make certain our confessions pay,
we'll happily retrace the muddied way,
thinking vile tears will wash away the stain.
Satan Trismegistes rocks the bewitched
Mind, endlessly, on evil's pillow, till,
all the precious metal of our will's
vaporised by that knowing alchemist.
The Devil pulls the strings that make us move!
We take delight in such disgusting things:
one step nearer Hell each new day brings
us, void of horror, to the stinking gloom.
We clutch at furtive pleasure as we pass,
like the debauchee whose lips are pressed
to some antique whore's battered breast,
squeezing the rotten orange that we grasp.
Packed, and seething like a million worms,
a host of Demons riot in our brains,
and when we breathe, invisibly, Death drains
into our lungs, stream full of silent groans.
If poison, arson, knives, base desire,
haven't yet embroidered deft designs
on the dull canvas of our pitiful lives
it's only, alas, because our souls lack fire.
Among the jackals, bitches, panthers,
monkeys, scorpions, serpents, vultures,
that screech, howl, grunt, and crawl, ogres,
in the vile menagerie of our errors,
there's one of uglier, nastier, fouler birth!
Without one wild gesture, one savage yell,
it would willingly send this world to hell,
and in one great yawn swallow up the earth:
it's Boredom! in its eye's an involuntary tear,
dreaming of scaffolds, as it smokes its hookah,
You know it, Reader, that fastidious monster,
hypocrite, Reader, my brother, and my peer!
The Wounded
by John Le Gay Brereton

Stupidity and Selfishness and Fear,
Who hold enslaved the intellect of Man,
Have found their victims here.
We saw them go, alert to seek the van
Where phantom Glory showered her withering leaves;
Now they return who can.
Slowly, full-fraught with pain, the vessel heaves
From labouring seas, and creeps along the bay
To where the city grieves.
Happy are those who limp the dusty way;
And those whose eyes can meet the loving glance,
Happy indeed are they.
But mock them not with babble of romance:
They have glared at death across the orient rocks
Or in the mire of France.
O welcome to your land of herds and flocks
And fields that pray toward a fairy sky
That promises and mocks.
Welcome! our eyes are strained and sorrow-dry,
Watching for peace and you, and every heart
Would fain, but cannot, cry.
For you who, led by love, have borne your part
Where war's black ploughshare turns the bloody sand
And crops of hatred start
For you and by your help, heroic band,
We swear by love and labour to make this
A lovelier, worthier land.
Nor shall we let the home-bred serpent hiss
Unscotched upon our hearth, if ever here
Our hope and fortune kiss.
The workers of the battered world draw near,
Scorning a foeman's name. The heart of Man
In every land is dear.