DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Song of the Pacifist
by Robert William Service

What do they matter, our headlong hates, when we take the toll of our Dead?
Think ye our glory and gain will pay for the torrent of blood we have shed?
By the cheers of our Victory will the heart of the mother be comforted?
If by the Victory all we mean is a broken and brooding foe;
Is the pomp and power of a glitt'ring hour, and a truce for an age or so:
By the clay-cold hand on the broken blade we have smitten a bootless blow!
If by the Triumph we only prove that the sword we sheathe is bright;
That justice and truth and love endure; that freedom's throned on the height;
That the feebler folks shall be unafraid; that Might shall never be Right;
If this be all: by the blood-drenched plains, by the havoc of fire and fear,
By the rending roar of the War of Wars, by the Dead so doubly dear. . . .
Then our Victory is a vast defeat, and it mocks us as we cheer.
Victory! there can be but one, hallowed in every land:
When by the graves of our common dead we who were foemen stand;
And in the hush of our common grief hand is tendered to hand.
Triumph! Yes, when out of the dust in the splendour of their release
The spirits of those who fell go forth and they hallow our hearts to peace,
And, brothers in pain, with world-wide voice, we clamour that War shall cease.
Glory! Ay, when from blackest loss shall be born most radiant gain;
When over the gory fields shall rise a star that never shall wane:
Then, and then only, our Dead shall know that they have not fall'n in vain.
When our children's children shall talk of War as a madness that may not be;
When we thank our God for our grief to-day, and blazon from sea to sea
In the name of the Dead the banner of Peace . . . THAT WILL BE VICTORY.
He Discourseth Of The Wherefore Of Bachelorism.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

"What else do we live for in this world beside?"
Alas! 't is the question of ten times a day,
That comes on the wind, or that floats on the tide,
And creeps in the houses where men go to pray.
What else do we live for than get such a wife
As this of the banker of our faint description?
What else is the end of our fashionable life
From which men escape as they would from conscription?
What else is the reason so few natives marry,
Than this, that extravagance leads on to ruin?
It is because few men are able to carry
The load of this baking and roasting and stewing,
Of buying and wasting extravagant meat,
Where women are dying of "nothing to eat;"
Where men in corruption so rapidly tending,
In morals and wealth in bankruptcy ending.
That forging and stealing and breaches of trust,
And ten thousand arts of the confidence game,
And follies uncounted of men "on a bust,"
Are follies and crimes of this age to our shame,
Till angels who witness the folly so wide
Extended from palace to farm-house and cot,
Might wonder if mortals life's objects forgot,
Or Merdle's position is man's common lot?
To Prince Charles Upon His Coming To Exeter.
by Robert Herrick

What fate decreed, time now has made us see,
A renovation of the west by thee.
That preternatural fever, which did threat
Death to our country, now hath lost his heat,
And, calms succeeding, we perceive no more
Th' unequal pulse to beat, as heretofore.
Something there yet remains for thee to do;
Then reach those ends that thou wast destin'd to.
Go on with Sylla's fortune; let thy fate
Make thee like him, this, that way fortunate:
Apollo's image side with thee to bless
Thy war (discreetly made) with white success.
Meantime thy prophets watch by watch shall pray,
While young Charles fights, and fighting wins the day:
That done, our smooth-paced poems all shall be
Sung in the high doxology of thee.
Then maids shall strew thee, and thy curls from them
Receive with songs a flowery diadem.
What Do I Care
by Sara Teasdale

What do I care, in the dreams and the languor of spring,
That my songs do not show me at all?
For they are a fragrance, and I am a flint and a fire,
I am an answer, they are only a call.
But what do I care, for love will be over so soon,
Let my heart have its say and my mind stand idly by,
For my mind is proud and strong enough to be silent,
It is my heart that makes my songs, not I.
The Flower Of Liberty
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

What flower is this that greets the morn,
Its hues from Heaven so freshly born?
With burning star and flaming band
It kindles all the sunset land
Oh tell us what its name may be, - 
Is this the Flower of Liberty?
It is the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
In savage Nature's far abode
Its tender seed our fathers sowed;
The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud,
Its opening leaves were streaked with blood,
Till Lo! earth's tyrants shook to see
The full-blown Flower of Liberty
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
Behold its streaming rays unite,
One mingling flood of braided light, - 
The red that fires the Southern rose,
With spotless white from Northern snows,
And, spangled o'er its azure, see
The sister Stars of Liberty!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
The blades of heroes fence it round,
Where'er it springs is holy ground;
From tower and dome its glories spread;
It waves where lonely sentries tread;
It makes the land as ocean free,
And plants an empire on the sea!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry Flower of Liberty!
Thy sacred leaves, fair Freedom's flower,
Shall ever float on dome and tower,
To all their heavenly colors true,
In blackening frost or crimson dew, - 
And God love us as we love thee,
Thrice holy Flower of Liberty!
Then hail the banner of the free,
The starry FLOWER OF LIBERTY!
Banquo
by Walter De La Mare

What dost thou here far from thy native place?
What piercing influences of heaven have stirred
Thy heart's last mansion all-corruptible to wake,
To move, and in the sweets of wine and fire
Sit tempting madness with unholy eyes?
Begone, thou shuddering, pale anomaly!
The dark presses without on yew and thorn;
Stoops now the owl upon her lonely quest;
The pomp runs high here, and our beauteous women
Seek no cold witness - O, let murder cry,
Too shrill for human ear, only to God.
Come not in power to wreak so wild a vengeance!
Thou knowest not now the limit of man's heart;
He is beyond thy knowledge. Gaze not then,
Horror enthroned lit with insanest light!
What We Needed.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

What does our country need? Not armies standing
With sabres gleaming ready for the fight.
Not increased navies, skillful and commanding,
To bound the waters with an iron might.
Not haughty men with glutted purses trying
To purchase souls, and keep the power of place.
Not jeweled dolls with one another vieing
For palms of beauty, elegance and grace.
But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly,
With that rare meekness, born of gentleness,
Women whose lives are pure and clean and holy,
The women whom all little children bless.
Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other,
With finest scorn for all things low and mean.
Women who hold the names of wife and mother,
Far nobler than the title of a Queen.
O these are they who mold the men of story,
These mothers, ofttimes shorn of grace and youth,
Who, worn and weary, ask no greater glory
Than making some young soul the home of truth,
Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowing
The seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin,
And, patient, watch the beauteous harvest growing
And weed out tares which crafty hands cast in.
Women who do not hold the gift of beauty
As some rare treasure to be bought and sold,
But guard it as a precious aid to duty - 
The outer framing of the inner gold;
Women who, low above their cradles bending,
Let flattery's voice go by, and give no heed,
While their pure prayers like incense are ascending:
These are our country's pride, our country's need.
Folly
by Alfred Joyce Kilmer (Joyce)

(For A. K. K.)
What distant mountains thrill and glow
Beneath our Lady Folly's tread?
Why has she left us, wise in woe,
Shrewd, practical, uncomforted?
We cannot love or dream or sing,
We are too cynical to pray,
There is no joy in anything
Since Lady Folly went away.
Many a knight and gentle maid,
Whose glory shines from years gone by,
Through ignorance was unafraid
And as a fool knew how to die.
Saint Folly rode beside Jehanne
And broke the ranks of Hell with her,
And Folly's smile shone brightly on
Christ's plaything, Brother Juniper.
Our minds are troubled and defiled
By study in a weary school.
O for the folly of the child!
The ready courage of the fool!
Lord, crush our knowledge utterly
And make us humble, simple men;
And cleansed of wisdom, let us see
Our Lady Folly's face again.
Sonnets: Idea LII
by Michael Drayton

What dost thou mean to cheat me of my heart,
To take all mine and give me none again?
Or have thine eyes such magic or that art
That what they get they ever do retain?
Play not the tyrant but take some remorse;
Rebate thy spleen if but for pity's sake;
Or cruel, if thou can'st not, let us scorse,
And for one piece of thine my whole heart take.
But what of pity do I speak to thee,
Whose breast is proof against complaint or prayer?
Or can I think what my reward shall be
From that proud beauty which was my betrayer!
What talk I of a heart when thou hast none?
Or if thou hast, it is a flinty one.
I Ken Something.
by George MacDonald

What gars ye sing sae, birdie,
As gien ye war lord o' the lift?
On breid ye're an unco sma' lairdie,
But in hicht ye've a kingly gift!
A' ye hae to coont yersel rich in
'S a wee mawn o' glory-motes!
The whilk to the throne ye're aye hitchin
Wi a lang tow o' sapphire notes!
Ay, yer sang's the sang o' an angel
For a sinfu' thrapple no meet,
Like the pipes til a heavenly braingel
Whaur they dance their herts intil their feet!
But though ye canna behaud, birdie,
Ye needna gar a'thing wheesht!
I'm noucht but a hirplin herdie,
But I hae a sang i' my breist!
Len' me yer throat to sing throu,
Len' me yer wings to gang hie,
And I'll sing ye a sang a laverock to cow,
And for bliss to gar him dee!
Easter
by William Henry Davies

What exultations in my mind,
From the love-bite of this Easter wind!
My head thrown back, my face doth shine
Like yonder Sun's, but warmer mine.
A butterfly - from who knows where -
Comes with a stagger through the air,
And, lying down, doth ope and close
His wings, as babies work their toes:
Perhaps he thinks of pressing tight
Into his wings a little light!
And many a bird hops in between
The leaves he dreams of, long and green,
And sings for nipple-buds that show
Where the full-breasted leaves must grow.
Dreams
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

What dreams we have and how they fly
Like rosy clouds across the sky;
Of wealth, of fame, of sure success,
Of love that comes to cheer and bless;
And how they wither, how they fade,
The waning wealth, the jilting jade--
The fame that for a moment gleams,
Then flies forever,--dreams, ah--dreams!
O burning doubt and long regret,
O tears with which our eyes are wet,
Heart-throbs, heart-aches, the glut of pain,
The somber cloud, the bitter rain,
You were not of those dreams--ah! well,
Your full fruition who can tell?
Wealth, fame, and love, ah! love that beams
Upon our souls, all dreams--ah! dreams.
My Thoughts Of Ye.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("' quoi je songe?")
[XXIIL, July, 1836.]
What do I dream of? Far from the low roof,
Where now ye are, children, I dream of you;
Of your young heads that are the hope and crown
Of my full summer, ripening to its fall.
Branches whose shadow grows along my wall,
Sweet souls scarce open to the breath of day,
Still dazzled with the brightness of your dawn.
I dream of those two little ones at play,
Making the threshold vocal with their cries,
Half tears, half laughter, mingled sport and strife,
Like two flowers knocked together by the wind.
Or of the elder two - more anxious thought - 
Breasting already broader waves of life,
A conscious innocence on either face,
My pensive daughter and my curious boy.
Thus do I dream, while the light sailors sing,
At even moored beneath some steepy shore,
While the waves opening all their nostrils breathe
A thousand sea-scents to the wandering wind,
And the whole air is full of wondrous sounds,
From sea to strand, from land to sea, given back
Alone and sad, thus do I dream of you.
Children, and house and home, the table set,
The glowing hearth, and all the pious care
Of tender mother, and of grandsire kind;
And while before me, spotted with white sails,
The limpid ocean mirrors all the stars,
And while the pilot, from the infinite main,
Looks with calm eye into the infinite heaven,
I dreaming of you only, seek to scan
And fathom all my soul's deep love for you - 
Love sweet, and powerful, and everlasting - 
And find that the great sea is small beside it.
Dublin University Magazine.
On Seeing Mademoiselle *** Dance At The Opera In Paris
by Thomas Oldham

What fine aerial Shape,
In orient colours dight,
Springs from the world unknown
Upon my wondering sight?
Loosely through various space
The lovely Figure flows,
And leaves the sleeping air
Unconscious as it goes.
Hark! a spontaneous strain
Its fairy gait attends;
In concord every sound
With every movement blends.
Lo, now! the passive Form
Moves as the music leads;
Each motion from each note,
Harmoniously proceeds.
By the same sense, methinks,
At once I hear and see;
And ears and eyes and mind
Are all one harmony.
Along my shivering nerves
The mingled raptures thrill,
And strangely take my soul,
And rule it as they will;
True to the magic force,
That shifts a thousand ways,
An echo, and a shade,
It answers and obeys.
But ah! the charm expires.
Did Fancy thus deceive?
She smiles, and fondly vain,
Would have me so believe.
Robin's Mistake
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

What do you think Red Robin
Found by a mow of hay?
Why, a flask brimful of liquor,
That the mowers brought that day
To slake their thirst in the hayfield.
And Robin he shook his head:
"Now I wonder what they call it,
And how it tastes?" he said.
"I have seen the mowers drink it - 
Why isn't it good for me?
So I'll just draw out the stopper
And get at the stuff, and see!"
But alas! for the curious Robin,
One draught, and he burned his throat
From his bill to his poor crop's lining,
And he could not utter a note.
And his head grew light and dizzy,
And he staggered left and right,
Tipped over the flask of brandy,
And spilled it, every mite.
But after awhile he sobered,
And quietly flew away,
And he never has tasted liquor,
Or touched it, since that day.
But I heard him say to his kindred,
In the course of a friendly chat,
"These men think they are above us,
Yet they drink such stuff as that!
Oh, the poor degraded creatures!
I am glad I am only a bird!"
Then he flew up over the meadow,
And that was all I heard.
Cradle Song
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

What does little birdie say
In her nest at peep of day?
Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till thy little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.
What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till thy little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby too shall fly away.
Youth
by Theodosia Garrison

What do they know of youth, who still are young?
They but the singers of a golden song
Who may not guess its worth or wonder--flung
Like largesse to the throng.
We only,--young no longer,--old so long
Before its harmonies, stand marvelling--
Oh! we who listen--never they who sing.
Not for itself is beauty, but for us
Who gaze upon it with all reverent eyes;
And youth which sheds its glory luminous,
Gives ever in this wise:--
Itself the joy it may not realise.
Only we know, who linger overlong
Youth that is made of beauty and of song.
The Cloak, The Boat, And The Shoes
by William Butler Yeats

"What do you make so fair and bright?"
"I make the cloak of Sorrow:
O lovely to see in all men's sight
Shall be the cloak of Sorrow,
In all men's sight."
"What do you build with sails for flight?"
"I build a boat for Sorrow:
O swift on the seas all day and night
Saileth the rover Sorrow,
All day and night."
What do you weave with wool so white?"
"I weave the shoes of Sorrow:
Soundless shall be the footfall light
In all men's ears of Sorrow,
Sudden and light."
Vagg Hollow
by Thomas Hardy

"What do you see in Vagg Hollow,
Little boy, when you go
In the morning at five on your lonely drive?"
" I see men's souls, who follow
Till we've passed where the road lies low,
When they vanish at our creaking!
"They are like white faces speaking
Beside and behind the waggon -
One just as father's was when here.
The waggoner drinks from his flagon,
(Or he'd flinch when the Hollow is near)
But he does not give me any.
"Sometimes the faces are many;
But I walk along by the horses,
He asleep on the straw as we jog;
And I hear the loud water-courses,
And the drops from the trees in the fog,
And watch till the day is breaking.
"And the wind out by Tintinhull waking;
I hear in it father's call
As he called when I saw him dying,
And he sat by the fire last Fall,
And mother stood by sighing;
But I'm not afraid at all!"
He Discourseth Of Trouble And Sorrow.
by Horatio Alger, Jr.

What else do they live for? They live but for this;
And nothing but this ever troubles their thinking;
Rich eating, rich dressing, and flirting's their bliss,
And life's better purposes constantly blinking.
Their life's but a tissue of trouble and sorrow
Of what is the fashion or will be to-morrow.
Graces For Children.
by Robert Herrick

What God gives, and what we take,
'Tis a gift for Christ, His sake:
Be the meal of beans and peas,
God be thanked for those and these:
Have we flesh, or have we fish,
All are fragments from His dish.
He His Church save, and the king;
And our peace here, like a spring,
Make it ever flourishing.
Horatian Lyrics. Odes I, 11.
by Eugene Field

What end the gods may have ordained for me,
And what for thee,
Seek not to learn, Leuconoe; we may not know;
Chaldean tables cannot bring us rest--
'Tis for the best
To bear in patience what may come, or weal or woe.
If for more winters our poor lot is cast,
Or this the last,
Which on the crumbling rocks has dashed Etruscan seas;
Strain clear the wine--this life is short, at best;
Take hope with zest,
And, trusting not To-Morrow, snatch To-Day for ease!
Where Leaps The Ste. Marie
by Emily Pauline Johnson

I
What dream you in the night-time
When you whisper to the moon?
What say you in the morning?
What do you sing at noon?
When I hear your voice uplifting,
Like a breeze through branches sifting,
And your ripples softly drifting
To the August airs a-tune.
II
Lend me your happy laughter,
Ste. Marie, as you leap;
Your peace that follows after
Where through the isles you creep.
Give to me your splendid dashing,
Give your sparkles and your splashing,
Your uphurling waves down crashing,
Then, your aftermath of sleep.
The Dead Ship Of Harpswell
by John Greenleaf Whittier

What flecks the outer gray beyond
The sundown's golden trail?
The white flash of a sea-bird's wing,
Or gleam of slanting sail?
Let young eyes watch from Neck and Point,
And sea-worn elders pray,
The ghost of what was once a ship
Is sailing up the bay.
From gray sea-fog, from icy drift,
From peril and from pain,
The home-bound fisher greets thy lights,
O hundred-harbored Maine!
But many a keel shall seaward turn,
And many a sail outstand,
When, tall and white, the Dead Ship looms
Against the dusk of land.
She rounds the headland's bristling pines;
She threads the isle-set bay;
No spur of breeze can speed her on,
Nor ebb of tide delay.
Old men still walk the Isle of Orr
Who tell her date and name,
Old shipwrights sit in Freeport yards
Who hewed her oaken frame.
What weary doom of baffled quest,
Thou sad sea-ghost, is thine?
What makes thee in the haunts of home
A wonder and a sign?
No foot is on thy silent deck,
Upon thy helm no hand;
No ripple hath the soundless wind
That smites thee from the land!
For never comes the ship to port,
Howe'er the breeze may be;
Just when she nears the waiting shore
She drifts again to sea.
No tack of sail, nor turn of helm,
Nor sheer of veering side;
Stern-fore she drives to sea and night,
Against the wind and tide.
In vain o'er Harpswell Neck the star
Of evening guides her in;
In vain for her the lamps are lit
Within thy tower, Seguin!
In vain the harbor-boat shall hail,
In vain the pilot call;
No hand shall reef her spectral sail,
Or let her anchor fall.
Shake, brown old wives, with dreary joy,
Your gray-head hints of ill;
And, over sick-beds whispering low,
Your prophecies fulfil.
Some home amid yon birchen trees
Shall drape its door with woe;
And slowly where the Dead Ship sails,
The burial boat shall row!
From Wolf Neck and from Flying Point,
From island and from main,
From sheltered cove and tided creek,
Shall glide the funeral train.
The dead-boat with the bearers four,
The mourners at her stern,
And one shall go the silent way
Who shall no more return!
And men shall sigh, and women weep,
Whose dear ones pale and pine,
And sadly over sunset seas
Await the ghostly sign.
They know not that its sails are filled
By pity's tender breath,
Nor see the Angel at the helm
Who steers the Ship of Death!
.        .        .        .        .
"Chill as a down-east breeze should be,"
The Book-man said. "A ghostly touch
The legend has. I'm glad to see
Your flying Yankee beat the Dutch."
"Well, here is something of the sort
Which one midsummer day I caught
In Narragansett Bay, for lack of fish."
"We wait," the Traveller said;
"serve hot or cold your dish."
In The British Museum
by Thomas Hardy

"What do you see in that time-touched stone,
When nothing is there
But ashen blankness, although you give it
A rigid stare?
"You look not quite as if you saw,
But as if you heard,
Parting your lips, and treading softly
As mouse or bird.
"It is only the base of a pillar, they'll tell you,
That came to us
From a far old hill men used to name
Areopagus."
- "I know no art, and I only view
A stone from a wall,
But I am thinking that stone has echoed
The voice of Paul,
"Paul as he stood and preached beside it
Facing the crowd,
A small gaunt figure with wasted features,
Calling out loud
"Words that in all their intimate accents
Pattered upon
That marble front, and were far reflected,
And then were gone.
"I'm a labouring man, and know but little,
Or nothing at all;
But I can't help thinking that stone once echoed
The voice of Paul."
The Arrival
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

'What do I hear at the window?
Did some one call me?'    Nay,
It was only the wind, my darling,
Grieving the night away.
Only the wind and the casement
Talking as two friends may.
'But now I hear some one speaking,
Oh listen and you will hear.'
It is only the night bird calling
To her mate in sudden fear.
Only the dead leaves falling;
The last lone leaves of the year.
'But now there is some one coming,
I hear a step on the stair.'
Nay, nay, it is nothing, darling,
Rest, and be free from care.
I have just been out in the hallway,
I am sure there is no one there.
Never a knock at the doorway,
Never a step in the hall,
Yet the King is coming, coming, -
How lightly his footsteps fall.
A sigh, and a straightening downward -
And silence is over all.