DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Trio
by Victoria Mary Sackville-West

So well she knew them both! yet as she came
Into the room, and heard their speech
Of tragic meshes knotted with her name,
And saw them, foes, but meeting each with each
Closer than friends, souls bared through enmity,
Beneath their startled gaze she thought that she
Broke as the stranger on their conference,
And stole abashed from thence.
The Rhinoceros.
by Oliver Herford

SO this is the Rhi-no-ce-ros!
I won-der why he looks so cross.
Per-haps he is an-noyed a bit
Be-cause his cloth-ing does not fit.
(They say he got it read-y made!)
It is not that, I am a-fraid.
He looks so cross be-cause I drew
Him with one horn in-stead of two.
Well, since he cares so much for style,
Let's give him two and see him smile.
To George B. Cheever
by John Greenleaf Whittier

So spake Esaias: so, in words of flame,
Tekoa's prophet-herdsman smote with blame
The traffickers in men, and put to shame,
All earth and heaven before,
The sacerdotal robbers of the poor.
All the dread Scripture lives for thee again,
To smite like lightning on the hands profane
Lifted to bless the slave-whip and the chain.
Once more the old Hebrew tongue
Bends with the shafts of God a bow new-strung!
Take up the mantle which the prophets wore;
Warn with their warnings, show the Christ once more
Bound, scourged, and crucified in His blameless poor;
And shake above our land
The unquenched bolts that blazed in Hosea's hand!
Not vainly shalt thou cast upon our years
The solemn burdens of the Orient seers,
And smite with truth a guilty nation's ears.
Mightier was Luther's word
Than Seckingen's mailed arm or Hutton's sword!
Timur Name. - Book Of Timur. The Winter And Timur.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

So the winter now closed round them
With resistless fury. Scattering
Over all his breath so icy,
He inflamed each wind that blithe
To assail them angrily.
Over them he gave dominion
To his frost-unsharpened tempests;
Down to Timur's council went he,
And with threat'ning voice address'd him:
"Softly, slowly, wretched being!
Live, the tyrant of injustice;
But shall hearts be scorch'd much longer
By thy flames, consume before them?
If amongst the evil spirits
Thou art one, good! I'm another.
Thou a greybeard art so I am;
Land and men we make to stiffen.
Thou art Mars! And I Saturnus,
Both are evil-working planets,
When united, horror-fraught.
Thou dost kill the soul, thou freezes
E'en the atmosphere; still colder
Is my breath than thine was ever.
Thy wild armies vex the faithful
With a thousand varying torments;
Well! God grant that I discover
Even worse, before I perish!
And by God, I'll give thee none.
Let God hear what now I tell thee!
Yes, by God! from Death's cold clutches
Nought, O greybeard, shall protect thee,
Not the hearth's broad coalfire's ardour,
Not December's brightest flame."
Earth The Healer, Earth The Keeper.
by William Morris

So swift the hours are moving
Unto the time un-proved:
Farewell my love unloving,
Farewell my love beloved!
What! are we not glad-hearted?
Is there no deed to do?
Is not all fear departed
And Spring-tide blossomed new?
The sails swell out above us,
The sea-ridge lifts the keel;
For They have called who love us,
Who bear the gifts that heal:
A crown for him that winneth,
A bed for him that fails,
A glory that beginneth
In never-dying tales.
Yet now the pain is ended
And the glad hand grips the sword,
Look on thy life amended
And deal out due award.
Think of the thankless morning,
The gifts of noon unused;
Think of the eve of scorning,
The night of prayer refused.
And yet.    The life before it,
Dost thou remember aught,
What terrors shivered o'er it
Born from the hell of thought?
And this that cometh after:
How dost thou live, and dare
To meet its empty laughter,
To face its friendless care?
In fear didst thou desire,
At peace dost thou regret,
The wasting of the fire,
The tangling of the net.
Love came and gat fair greeting;
Love went; and left no shame.
Shall both the twilights meeting
The summer sunlight blame?
What! cometh love and goeth
Like the dark night's empty wind,
Because thy folly soweth
The harvest of the blind?
Hast thou slain love with sorrow?
Have thy tears quenched the sun?
Nay even yet to-morrow
Shall many a deed be done.
This twilight sea thou sailest,
Has it grown dim and black
For that wherein thou failest,
And the story of thy lack?
Peace then! for thine old grieving
Was born of Earth the kind,
And the sad tale thou art leaving
Earth shall not leave behind.
Peace! for that joy abiding
Whereon thou layest hold
Earth keepeth for a tiding
For the day when this is old.
Thy soul and life shall perish,
And thy name as last night's wind;
But Earth the deed shall cherish
That thou to-day shalt find.
And all thy joy and sorrow
So great but yesterday,
So light a thing to-morrow,
Shall never pass away.
Lo! lo! the dawn-blink yonder,
The sunrise draweth nigh,
And men forget to wonder
That they were born to die.
Then praise the deed that wendeth
Through the daylight and the mirth!
The tale that never endeth
Whoso may dwell on earth.
So We'll Go No More A-Roving.[578]
by George Gordon Byron

1.
So we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
2.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And Love itself have rest.
3.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a-roving
By the light of the moon.
Feb. 28, 1817.
[First published, Letters and Journals, 1830, ii. 79.]
A Woman's Love
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

So vast the tide of love within me surging,
It overflows like some stupendous sea,
The confines of the Present and To-be;
And 'gainst the Past's high wall I feel it urging,
As it would cry, "Thou, too, shalt yield to me!"
All other loves my supreme love embodies;
I would be she on whose soft bosom nursed
Thy clinging infant lips to quench their thirst;
She who trod close to hidden worlds where God is,
That she might have, and hold, and see thee first.
I would be she who stirred the vague, fond fancies
Of thy still childish heart; who through bright days
Went sporting with thee in the old-time plays,
And caught the sunlight of thy boyish glances
In half-forgotten and long-buried Mays.
Forth to the end, and back to the beginning,
My love would send its inundating tide,
Wherein all landmarks of thy past should hide.
If thy life's lesson MUST be learned through sinning,
My grieving virtue would become thy guide.
For I would share the burden of thy errors,
So when the sun of our brief life had set,
If thou didst walk in darkness and regret,
E'en in that shadowy world of nameless terrors,
My soul and thine should be companions yet.
And I would cross with thee those troubled oceans
Of dark remorse whose waters are despair:
All things my jealous, reckless love would dare,
So that thou mightst not recollect emotions
In which it did not have a part and share.
There is no limit to my love's full measure,
It's spirit-gold is shaped by earth's alloy;
I would be friend and mother, mate and toy,
I'd have thee look to me for every pleasure,
And in me find all memories of joy.
Yet though I love thee in such selfish fashion,
I would wait on thee, sitting at thy feet,
And serving thee, if thou didst deem it meet.
And couldst thou give me one fond hour of passion,
I'd take that hour and call my life complete.
To The Most Fair And Lovely Mistress Anne Soame, Now Lady Abdie.
by Robert Herrick

So smell those odours that do rise
From out the wealthy spiceries;
So smells the flower of blooming clove,
Or roses smother'd in the stove;
So smells the air of spiced wine,
Or essences of jessamine;
So smells the breath about the hives
When well the work of honey thrives,
And all the busy factors come
Laden with wax and honey home;
So smell those neat and woven bowers
All over-arch'd with orange flowers,
And almond blossoms that do mix
To make rich these aromatics;
So smell those bracelets and those bands
Of amber chaf'd between the hands,
When thus enkindled they transpire
A noble perfume from the fire;
The wine of cherries, and to these
The cooling breath of respasses;
The smell of morning's milk and cream,
Butter of cowslips mix'd with them;
Of roasted warden or bak'd pear,
These are not to be reckon'd here,
Whenas the meanest part of her,
Smells like the maiden pomander.
Thus sweet she smells, or what can be
More lik'd by her or lov'd by me.
On Julia's Voice
by Robert Herrick

So smooth, so sweet, so silv'ry is thy voice,
As, could they hear, the Damned would make no noise,
But listen to thee (walking in thy chamber)
melting melodious words to Lutes of Amber.
Written Afterwards
by Henry Lawson

So the days of my tramping are over,
And the days of my riding are done,
I'm about as content as a rover
Will ever be under the sun;
I write, after reading your letter,
My pipe with old memories rife,
And I feel in a mood that had better
Not meet the true eyes of the wife.
You must never admit a suggestion
That old things are good to recall;
You must never consider the question:
'Was I happier then, after all?'
You must banish the old hope and sorrow
That make the sad pleasures of life,
You must live for To-day and To-morrow
If you want to be just to the wife.
I have changed since the first day I kissed her.
Which is due, Heaven bless her!, to her;
I'm respected and trusted, I'm 'Mister,'
Addressed by the children as 'Sir.'
And I feel the respect without feigning,
But you'd laugh the great laugh of your life
If you only saw me entertaining
An old lady friend of the wife.
By-the-way, when you're writing, remember
That you never went drinking with me,
And forget our last night of December,
Lest our sev'ral accounts disagree.
And, for my sake, old man, you had better
Avoid the old language of strife,
For the technical terms of your letter
May be misunderstood by the wife.
Never hint of the girls appertaining
To the past (when you're writing again),
For they take such a lot of explaining,
And you know how I hate to explain.
There are some things, we know to our sorrow,
That cut to the heart like a knife,
And your past is To-day and To-morrow
If you want to be true to the wife.
I believe that the creed we were chums in
Was grand, but too abstract and bold,
And the knowledge of life only comes in
When you're married and fathered and old.
And it's well. You may travel as few men,
You may stick to a mistress for life;
But the world, as it is, born of woman
Must be seen through the eyes of the wife.
No doubt you are dreaming as I did
And going the careless old pace,
While my future grows dull and decided,
And the world narrows down to the Place.
Let it be. If my 'treason's' resented,
You may do worse, old man, in your life;
Let me dream, too, that I am contented,
For the sake of a true little wife.
The Morn And Eve Of Life.
by Eliza Paul Kirkbride Gurney

So soft Time's plumage in life's budding spring,
We rarely note the flutter of his wing.
The untutored heart, from pain and sadness free,
Beats high with hope and joy and ecstasy;
And the fond bosoms of confiding youth
Believe their fairy world a world of truth.
The thorn is young upon the rose's stem;
They heed it not, it has no wound for them.
While yet the heart is new to misery,
There is a gloss on everything we see;
There is a freshness, which returns no more
When fades the morn of life that soon is o'er;
A warmth of feeling, ardency of joy,
Delight almost exempt from an alloy,
A zest for pleasure, fearlessness of pain,
That we are destined ne'er to know again.
And what succeeds this era joyous, bright?
Is it a cloudless eve or starless night?
To those who're busied in life's brilliant dawn
With gathering flowers that bloom when spring is gone,
And, ere their morning sun begins to wane,
Add many a link to fond affection's chain,
To Heaven's supreme behest have meekly bowed 
'Twill prove indeed an eve without a cloud.
What though the brilliancy and sheen of day
With youthful hours have faded all away;
What though the fresh and roseate bloom of spring
A fragrance in our path no more shall fling;
Yet there's a foretaste pure of joys divine,
A quiet, holy calm in life's decline,
A moonlight of the soul in mercy given
To light the pilgrim to the gates of Heaven.
The Student Gone.
by Hattie Howard

So soon he fell, the world will never know
What possibilities within him lay,
What hopes irradiated his young life,
With high ambition and with ardor rife;
But ah! the speedy summons came, and so
He passed away.
So soon he fell, there lie unfinished plans
By others misapplied, misunderstood;
And doors are barred that wait the master-key - 
That wait his magic Open Sesame! - 
To that assertive power that commands
The multitude.
Too soon he fell! Was he not born to prove
What manhood and integrity might be - 
How one from all base elements apart
Might walk serene, in purity of heart,
His face the bright transparency of love
And sympathy?
The student ranks are closed, there is no gap;
Of other brave aspirants is no dearth;
Prowess, fidelity, and truth go on,
And few shall miss or mourn the student gone,
Reposing in the all-protecting lap
Of Mother Earth.
Too soon - O God! was it thy will that one
Of such endeavor and of noble mien,
Enrapt with living, should thus early go
From all he loved and all who loved him so,
Mid life's activities no longer known,
No longer seen?
Oh, not for aye should agonizing lips
Quiver with questionings they dare not frame;
Though in the dark penumbra of despair
Seemeth no light, nor comfort anywhere - 
All things enshadowed as in dense eclipse,
No more the same.
Could we but know, in that Elysian lore
Of happy exercise still going on
Could we but know of glorious heights attained,
Of his reward, of mysteries explained, - 
Ah! but to know were to lament no more
The student gone.
Side By Side
by Thomas Hardy

So there sat they,
The estranged two,
Thrust in one pew
By chance that day;
Placed so, breath-nigh,
Each comer unwitting
Who was to be sitting
In touch close by.
Thus side by side
Blindly alighted,
They seemed united
As groom and bride,
Who'd not communed
For many years -
Lives from twain spheres
With hearts distuned.
Her fringes brushed
His garment's hem
As the harmonies rushed
Through each of them:
Her lips could be heard
In the creed and psalms,
And their fingers neared
At the giving of alms.
And women and men,
The matins ended,
By looks commended
Them, joined again.
Quickly said she,
"Don't undeceive them -
Better thus leave them:"
"Quite so," said he.
Slight words! the last
Between them said,
Those two, once wed,
Who had not stood fast.
Diverse their ways
From the western door,
To meet no more
In their span of days.
Immortal
by Sara Teasdale

So soon my body will have gone
Beyond the sound and sight of men,
And tho' it wakes and suffers now,
Its sleep will be unbroken then;
But oh, my frail immortal soul
That will not sleep forevermore,
A leaf borne onward by the blast,
A wave that never finds the shore.
The Healer
by John Greenleaf Whittier

To a young physician, with Dore's picture of Christ healing the sick.
So stood of old the holy Christ
Amidst the suffering throng;
With whom His lightest touch sufficed
To make the weakest strong.
That healing gift He lends to them
Who use it in His name;
The power that filled His garment's hem
Is evermore the same.
For lo! in human hearts unseen
The Healer dwelleth still,
And they who make His temples clean
The best subserve His will.
The holiest task by Heaven decreed,
An errand all divine,
The burden of our common need
To render less is thine.
The paths of pain are thine. Go forth
With patience, trust, and hope;
The sufferings of a sin-sick earth
Shall give thee ample scope.
Beside the unveiled mysteries
Of life and death go stand,
With guarded lips and reverent eyes
And pure of heart and hand.
So shalt thou be with power endued
From Him who went about
The Syrian hillsides doing good,
And casting demons out.
That Good Physician liveth yet
Thy friend and guide to be;
The Healer by Gennesaret
Shall walk the rounds with thee
Alcaics
by Arthur Hugh Clough

So spake the voice: and as with a single life
Instinct, the whole mass, fierce, irretainable,
Down on that unsuspecting host swept;
Down, with the fury of winds, that all night
Upbrimming, sapping slowly the dyke, at dawn
Fall through the breach o'er holmstead and harvest; and
Heard roll a deluge: while the milkmaid
Trips i' the dew, and remissly guiding
Morn's first uneven furrow, the farmer's boy
Dreams out his dream; so, over the multitude
Safe-tented, uncontrolled and uncon-
trollably sped the Avenger's fury.
The Knight's Leap: A Legend Of Altenahr
by Charles Kingsley

'So the foemen have fired the gate, men of mine;
And the water is spent and gone?
Then bring me a cup of the red Ahr-wine:
I never shall drink but this one.
'And reach me my harness, and saddle my horse,
And lead him me round to the door:
He must take such a leap to-night perforce,
As horse never took before.
'I have fought my fight, I have lived my life,
I have drunk my share of wine;
From Trier to Coln there was never a knight
Led a merrier life than mine.
'I have lived by the saddle for years two score;
And if I must die on tree,
Then the old saddle tree, which has borne me of yore,
Is the properest timber for me.
'So now to show bishop, and burgher, and priest,
How the Altenahr hawk can die:
If they smoke the old falcon out of his nest,
He must take to his wings and fly.'
He harnessed himself by the clear moonshine,
And he mounted his horse at the door;
And he drained such a cup of the red Ahr-wine,
As man never drained before.
He spurred the old horse, and he held him tight,
And he leapt him out over the wall;
Out over the cliff, out into the night,
Three hundred feet of fall.
They found him next morning below in the glen,
With never a bone in him whole - 
A mass or a prayer, now, good gentlemen,
For such a bold rider's soul.
Eversley, 1864.
Reflections On Cleopathera's Needle
by Cormac O'Leary

So that's Cleopathera's Needle, bedad,
An' a quare lookin' needle it is, I'll be bound;
What a powerful muscle the queen must have had
That could grasp such a weapon an' wind it around!
Imagine her sittin' there stitchin' like mad
Wid a needle like that in her hand! I declare
It's as big as the Round Tower of Slane, an', bedad,
It would pass for a round tower, only it's square!
The taste of her, ordherin' a needle of granite!
Begorra, the sight of it sthrikes me quite dumb!
An' look at the quare sort of figures upon it;
I wondher can these be the thracks of her thumb!
I once was astonished to hear of the faste
Cleopathera made upon pearls; but now
I declare, I would not be surprised in the laste
If ye told me the woman had swallowed a cow!
It's aisy to see why bould C'sar should quail
In her presence, an' meekly submit to her rule;
Wid a weapon like that in her fist I'll go bail
She could frighten the sowl out of big Finn MacCool!
But, Lord, what poor pigmies the women are now,
Compared with the monsthers they must have been then!
Whin the darlin's in those days would kick up a row,
Holy smoke, but it must have been hot for the men!
Just think how a chap that goes courtin' would start
If his girl was to prod him wid that in the shins!
I have often seen needles, but bouldly assart
That the needle in front of me there takes the pins!
O, sweet Cleopathera! I'm sorry you're dead;
An' whin lavin' this wondherful needle behind
Had ye thought of bequathin' a spool of your thread
An' yer thimble an' scissors, it would have been kind.
But pace to your ashes, ye plague of great men,
Yer strength is departed, yer glory is past;
Ye'll never wield sceptre or needle again,
An' a poor little asp did yer bizzness at last!
Which?
by Robert Browning

So, the three Court-ladies began
Their trial of who judged best
In esteeming the love of a man:
Who preferred with most reason was thereby confessed
Boy-Cupid's exemplary catcher and cager;
An Abb' crossed legs to decide on the wager.
First the Duchesse: 'Mine for me,
Who were it but God's for Him,
And the King's for who but he?
Both faithful and loyal, one grace more shall brim
His cup with perfection: a lady's true lover,
He holds, save his God and his king, none above her.'
'I require', outspoke the Marquise,
'Pure thoughts, ay, but also fine deeds:
Play the paladin must he, to please
My whim, and, to prove my knight's service exceeds
Your saint's and your loyalist's praying and kneeling,
Show wounds, each wide mouth to my mercy appealing.'
Then the Comtesse: 'My choice be a wretch,
Mere losel in body and soul,
Thrice accurst! What care I, so he stretch
Arms to me his sole savior, love's ultimate goal,
Out of earth and men's noise, names of 'infidel,' 'traitor.'
Cast up at him? Crown me, crown's adjudicator!'
And the Abb' uncrossed his legs,
Took snuff, a reflective pinch,
Broke silence: 'The question begs
Much pondering ere I pronounce. Shall I flinch?
The love which to one and one only has reference
Seems terribly like what perhaps gains God's preference.'
The Summer Sea
by Charles Kingsley

Soft soft wind, from out the sweet south sliding,
Waft thy silver cloud webs athwart the summer sea;
Thin thin threads of mist on dewy fingers twining
Weave a veil of dappled gauze to shade my babe and me.
Deep deep Love, within thine own abyss abiding,
Pour Thyself abroad, O Lord, on earth and air and sea;
Worn weary hearts within Thy holy temple hiding,
Shield from sorrow, sin, and shame my helpless babe and me.
From The Water-Babies.    1862
Penelope
by Bret Harte (Francis)

So you've kem 'yer agen,
And one answer won't do?
Well, of all the derned men
That I've struck, it is you.
O Sal! 'yer's that derned fool from Simpson's, cavortin' round 'yer in the dew.
Kem in, ef you will.
Thar, quit! Take a cheer.
Not that; you can't fill
Them theer cushings this year,
For that cheer was my old man's, Joe Simpson, and they don't make such men about 'yer.
He was tall, was my Jack,
And as strong as a tree.
Thar's his gun on the rack,
Jest you heft it, and see.
And you come a courtin' his widder! Lord! where can that critter, Sal, be!
You'd fill my Jack's place?
And a man of your size,
With no baird to his face,
Nor a snap to his eyes,
And nary Sho! thar! I was foolin', I was, Joe, for sartain, don't rise.
Sit down. Law! why, sho!
I'm as weak as a gal.
Sal! Don't you go, Joe,
Or I'll faint, sure, I shall.
Sit down, anywheer, where you like, Joe, in that cheer, if you choose, Lord! where's Sal?
The Blinded Bird
by Thomas Hardy

So zestfully canst thou sing?
And all this indignity,
With God's consent, on thee!
Blinded ere yet a-wing
By the red-hot needle thou,
I stand and wonder how
So zestfully thou canst sing!
Resenting not such wrong,
Thy grievous pain forgot,
Eternal dark thy lot,
Groping thy whole life long;
After that stab of fire;
Enjailed in pitiless wire;
Resenting not such wrong!
Who hath charity? This bird.
Who suffereth long and is kind,
Is not provoked, though blind
And alive ensepulchred?
Who hopeth, endureth all things?
Who thinketh no evil, but sings?
Who is divine? This bird.