DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Majority.
by Nora Pembroke (Margaret Moran Dixon McDougall)

So friend of mine 'tis thy birthday morn,
And friends with fair gifts around thee come,
Outside the circle I stand forlorn,
My hands are empty my lips are dumb.
O Thou who seest in secret still,
Who reads the heart when no word is said,
The wishes that rise in prayer fulfil
In royal blessings to crown his head.
Entering the portals of manhood now,
The boy we loved from our knowledge slips,
With fresh consecration seal his brow,
With thy altar fire retouch his lips.
He girds himself for the strife anew,
And love foresees what the dangers are;
But thou, O Captain, art tried and true,
'Tis at thy charge he goes forth to war!
My empty hands to thy throne I lift,
While parting sorrow my spirit swells,
Lord, thou wilt give him a birthday gift
Out of the place where Thy fulness dwells.
He's called and chosen to dare and do,
To uphold Thy banner on battle field;
Be Thou to him strength and wisdom too,
In the day of strife, his sword and shield.
More than I ask Thou wilt give, O King!
What is my friendship or care to Thine!
To the banquet house Thy hand will bring
And refresh his lips with the kingdom's wine.
The Pagan
by George Orwell (Eric Arthur Blair)

So here are you, and here am I,
Where we may thank our gods to be;
Above the earth, beneath the sky,
Naked souls alive and free.
The autumn wind goes rustling by
And stirs the stubble at our feet;
Out of the west it whispering blows,
Stops to caress and onward goes,
Bringing its earthy odours sweet.
See with what pride the the setting sun
Kinglike in gold and purple dies,
And like a robe of rainbow spun
Tinges the earth with shades divine.
That mystic light is in your eyes
And ever in your heart will shine.
Ichabod
by John Greenleaf Whittier

So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn
Which once he wore!
The glory from his gray hairs gone
Forevermore!
Revile him not, the Tempter hath
A snare for all;
And pitying tears, not scorn and wrath,
Befit his fall!
Oh, dumb be passion's stormy rage,
When he who might
Have lighted up and led his age,
Falls back in night.
Scorn! would the angels laugh, to mark
A bright soul driven,
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark,
From hope and heaven!
Let not the land once proud of him
Insult him now,
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim,
Dishonored brow.
But let its humbled sons, instead,
From sea to lake,
A long lament, as for the dead,
In sadness make.
Of all we loved and honored, naught
Save power remains;
A fallen angel's pride of thought,
Still strong in chains.
All else is gone; from those great eyes
The soul has fled:
When faith is lost, when honor dies,
The man is dead!
Then, pay the reverence of old days
To his dead fame;
Walk backward, with averted gaze,
And hide the shame
MCMXIII
by Victoria Mary Sackville-West

So prodigal was I of youth,
Forgetting I was young;
I worshipped dead men for their strength,
Forgetting I was strong.
I cherished old, jejune advice;
I thought I groped for truth;
Those dead old languages I learned
When I was prodigal of youth!
Then in the sunlight stood a boy,
Outstretching either hand,
Palm upwards, cup-like, and between
The fingers trickled sand.
"Oh, why so grave" he cried to me,
"Laugh, stern lips, laugh at last!
Let wisdom come when wisdom may.
The sand is running fast."
I followed him into the sun,
And laughed as he desired,
And every day upon the grass
We play till we are tired.
The Heart Unseen
by Richard Le Gallienne

So many times the heart can break,
So many ways,
Yet beat along and beat along
So many days.
A fluttering thing we never see,
And only hear
When some stern doctor to our side
Presses his ear.
Strange hidden thing, that beats and beats
We know not why,
And makes us live, though we indeed
Would rather die.
Mysterious, fighting, loving thing,
So sad, so true - 
I would my laughing eyes some day
Might look on you.
Close By
by Emily Pauline Johnson

So near at hand (our eyes o'erlooked its nearness
In search of distant things)
A dear dream lay - perchance to grow in dearness
Had we but felt its wings
Astir. The air our very breathing fanned
It was so near at hand.
Once, many days ago, we almost held it,
The love we so desired;
But our shut eyes saw not, and fate dispelled it
Before our pulses fired
To flame, and errant fortune bade us stand
Hand almost touching hand.
I sometimes think had we two been discerning,
The by-path hid away
From others' eyes had then revealed its turning
To us, nor led astray
Our footsteps, guiding us into love's land
That lay so near at hand.
So near at hand, dear heart, could we have known it!
Throughout those dreamy hours,
Had either loved, or loving had we shown it,
Response had sure been ours;
We did not know that heart could heart command,
And love so near at hand!
What then availed the red wine's subtle glisten?
We passed it blindly by,
And now what profit that we wait and listen
Each for the other's heart beat? Ah! the cry
Of love o'erlooked still lingers, you and I
Sought heaven afar, we did not understand
'Twas - once so near at hand.
The Cyclone.
by James Whitcomb Riley

So lone I stood, the very trees seemed drawn
In conference with themselves. - Intense - intense
Seemed everything; - the summer splendor on
The sight, - magnificence!
A babe's life might not lighter fail and die
Than failed the sunlight - Though the hour was noon,
The palm of midnight might not lighter lie
Upon the brow of June.
With eyes upraised, I saw the underwings
Of swallows - gone the instant afterward - 
While from the elms there came strange twitterings,
Stilled scarce ere they were heard.
The river seemed to shiver; and, far down
Its darkened length, I saw the sycamores
Lean inward closer, under the vast frown
That weighed above the shores.
Then was a roar, born of some awful burst! - 
And one lay, shrieking, chattering, in my path - 
Flung - he or I - out of some space accurst
As of Jehovah's wrath:
Nor barely had he wreaked his latest prayer,
Ere back the noon flashed o'er the ruin done,
And, o'er uprooted forests touseled there,
The birds sang in the sun.
So Proud She Was To Die
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

So proud she was to die
It made us all ashamed
That what we cherished, so unknown
To her desire seemed.
So satisfied to go
Where none of us should be,
Immediately, that anguish stooped
Almost to jealousy.
Sonnet XXXI.
by Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch)

Io temo s' de' begli occhi l' assalto.
HE EXCUSES HIMSELF FOR HAVING SO LONG DELAYED TO VISIT HER.
So much I fear to encounter her bright eye.
Alway in which my death and Love reside,
That, as a child the rod, its glance I fly,
Though long the time has been since first I tried;
And ever since, so wearisome or high,
No place has been where strong will has not hied,
Her shunning, at whose sight my senses die,
And, cold as marble, I am laid aside:
Wherefore if I return to see you late,
Sure 'tis no fault, unworthy of excuse,
That from my death awhile I held aloof:
At all to turn to what men shun, their fate,
And from such fear my harass'd heart to loose,
Of its true faith are ample pledge and proof.
MACGREGOR.
The World's Need
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

So many gods, so many creeds,
So many paths that wind and wind,
While just the art of being kind,
Is all the sad world needs.
The Death Of Love
by Madison Julius Cawein

So Love is dead, the Love we knew of old!
And in the sorrow of our hearts' hushed halls
A lute lies broken and a flower falls;
Love's house stands empty and his hearth lies cold.
Lone in dim places, where sweet vows were told,
In walks grown desolate, by ruined walls
Beauty decays; and on their pedestals
Dreams crumble and th' immortal gods are mold.
Music is slain or sleeps; one voice alone,
One voice awakes, and like a wandering ghost
Haunts all the echoing chambers of the Past
The voice of Memory, that stills to stone
The soul that hears; the mind, that, utterly lost,
Before its beautiful presence stands aghast.
Kuno Kohn's Five Songs to Mary
by Alfred Lichtenstein

First Song:
So many years I sought you, Mary - 
In gardens, rooms, cities and mountains,
In dumps, whores, in acting schools,
In sick beds and in the rooms of mad people,
In kitchen maids, screaming, celebrations of spring,
In every kind of weather and every kind of day,
In coffee houses, mothers, dancers - 
I did not find you in bars, motion pictures,
Music-cafes, excursions into the summer mist...
Who knows the agony, when I, in the night on the streets,
Cried out for you to the dead sky - 
Next Song:
He who looks for you in this way, Mary, becomes quite gray.
He who looks for you in this way, Mary, loses his face and legs.
The heart crumbles.    Blood and dream escape.
If I could rest... if I were in your hands...
Oh, if you would take me up in your eyes...
Song of Praise
Mary you - to think of how
I felt about you... my heavy head sinks - 
Sea only and moon - sea-moon and wind and world - 
White sand encircling your white skin, Mary - 
Your hair... your smile - all around is sea and distress
And shouts and longing and a gentle happiness - 
All this singing, that makes for such weariness...
Doesn't heaven come to us slowly like a mother's song
To the forehead of her child again and again - 
Sad Song
Now I go once again among days, animals,
Rocks and thousands of eyes and sounds - 
The most foreign one.    I had to lose you...
Your sinful body, Mary, was so lovely - 
Now I once again in vain look among days, animals,
Rocks and sounds for a trace of you.
Now I also know: I had to lose you...
I did not find you - it was only your name - 
Last Song
Only come, my rain... fall against my face
Yellow street lamps... overturn the houses - 
I don't want unbroken, smooth roads.
Now it is lovely... only in the light of street lamps...
Mary... surrounded with dark rain - 
This is the way it should be.    I would like to be with you.
What are mountains and the flat land to me - 
What are cities to me and colorful hypnotic nights - 
Back to the ocean... back to the starry shore.
You are not entirely Mary, whom I sought.
But you are also Mary - boundless...
Beloved... a fool... cursed with longing...
To The Ship In Which Lord Castlereagh Sailed For The Continent.
by Thomas Moore

Imitated from Horace, lib. i, ode 3.
So may my Lady's prayers prevail,
And Canning's too, and lucid Bragge's,
And Eldon beg a favoring gale
From Eolus, that older Bags,
To speed thee on thy destined way,
Oh ship, that bearest our Castlereagh,
Our gracious Regent's better half
And therefore quarter of a King--
(As Van or any other calf
May find without much figuring).
Waft him, oh ye kindly breezes,
Waft this Lord of place and pelf,
Any where his Lordship pleases,
Tho' 'twere to Old Nick himself!
Oh, what a face of brass was his.
Who first at Congress showed his phiz--
To sign away the Rights of Man
To Russian threats and Austrian juggle;
And leave the sinking African
To fall without one saving struggle--
'Mong ministers from North and South,
To show his lack of shame and sense,
And hoist the sign of "Bull and Mouth"
For blunders and for eloquence!
In vain we wish our Secs, at home
To mind their papers, desks, and shelves,
If silly Secs, abroad will roam
And make such noodles of themselves.
But such hath always been the case--
For matchless impudence of face,
There's nothing like your Tory race!
First, Pitt, the chosen of England, taught her
A taste for famine, fire and slaughter.
Then came the Doctor, for our ease,
With Eldons, Chathams, Hawksburies,
And other deadly maladies.
When each in turn had run their rigs,
Necessity brought in the Whigs:
And oh! I blush, I blush to say,
When these, in turn, were put to flight, too,
Illustrious TEMPLE flew away
With lots of pens he had no right to.[1]
In short, what will not mortal man do?
And now, that--strife and bloodshed past--
We've done on earth what harm we can do,
We gravely take to heaven at last
And think its favoring smile to purchase
(Oh Lord, good Lord!) by--building churches!
Two Men
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

So much one thought about the life beyond
He did not drain the waters of his pond;
And when death laid his children 'neath the sod
He called it - 'the mysterious will of God.'
He would not strive for worldly gain, not he.
His wealth, he said, was stored in God's To Be.
He kept his mortal body poorly drest,
And talked about the garments of the blest.
And when to his last sleep he laid him down,
His only mourner begged her widow's gown.
One was not sure there was a life to come,
So made an Eden of his earthly home.
He strove for wealth, and with an open hand
He comforted the needy in his land.
He wore new garments often, and the old
Helped many a brother to keep out the cold.
He said this life was such a little span
Man ought to make the most of it, - for man.
And when he died the fortune that he left
Gave succour to the needy and bereft.
Good Cheer (1870)
by Bj'rnstjerne Martinius Bj'rnson

(See Note 49)
So let these songs their story tell
To all who in the Northland dwell,
Since many friends request it.
(That Finland's folk with them belong
In the wide realm of Northern song,
I grateful must attest it.)
I send these songs - and now I find
Most of them have riot what my mind
Has deepest borne and favored:
Some are too hasty, some too brief,
Some, long in stock, have come to grief,
Some with raw youth are flavored.
I lived far more than e'er I sang;
Thought, ire, and mirth unceasing rang
Around me, where I guested;
To be where loud life's battles call
For me was well-nigh more than all
My pen on page arrested.
What's true and strong has growing-room,
And will perhaps eternal bloom,
Without black ink's salvation,
And he will be, who least it planned,
But in life's surging dared to stand,
The best bard for his nation.
I heard once of a Spanish feast:
Within the ring a rustic beast,
A horse, to fight was fated;
In came a tiger from his cage,
Who walked about, his foe to gauge,
And crouching down, then waited.
The people clapped and laughed and cheered,
The tiger sprang, the horse upreared,
But none could see him bleeding;
The tiger tumbling shrinks and backs
Before the horse's rustic whacks,
Lies on his head naught heeding.
Then men and women hooted, hissed,
With glaring eyes and clench'd fist
Out o'er the balcony bending;
With shouts the tiger's heart they tease,
Their thirst for blood soon to appease,
To onset new him sending.
The people clapped and laughed and cheered
The tiger sprang, the horse upreared;
No blood to see was given,
For fortune held the horse too dear,
To him the tiger could not near,
In flying curves hoof-driven.
To say who won I will not try;
For lo, this rustic horse am I,
And on the conflict's going; - 
The city, though, where it occurs,
And where it cheers and laughter stirs,
Is known without my showing.
I fight, but have no hate or spite,
From what I love draw gladness bright,
My right to wrath reserving.
It is my blood, my soul, that goes
In every line of all my blows,
And guides their course unswerving.
But as I stand here now to-day,
Nor grudge nor vengeance can me sway,
To think that foes I'm facing.
So in return some friendship give
To one who for the cause would live,
With love the North embracing!
But first my poet-path shall be
With veneration unto thee,
Who fill'st the North with wonder;
In wrath thou dawn didst prophesy
Behind the North's dark morning-sky,
That lightnings shook and thunder.
Then, milder, thou, by sea and slope,
The fount of saga, faith, and hope
Mad'st flow for every peasant; - 
Now from the snow-years' mountain-side
Thou seest with time's returning tide
Thine own high image present.
To thee, then, in whose spring of song
Finland's "the thousand lakes" belong
And sound their thrilling sorrow: - 
Our Northern soul forever heard
Keeps watch and ward in poet's word
'Gainst Eastern millions' morrow.
But when I stand in our own home,
One greets me from the starry dome
With wealth of light and power.
There shines he: HENRIK WERGELAND,
Out over Norway's pallid strand
In memory's clear hour.
Rouge And Gray
by Paul Cameron Brown

So much time has passed
& time is a hooligan run wild
littering the streets,
squeezing toothpaste at the wrong end
shredding clothes with a razor blade.
Time is never called into account    - 
lives like Peter Pan
in a flying abode above it all
scot-free, the surly bandit.
A perilous acquisition    - 
tiny pinpricks above the eye-brows
crows' feet
-    all too visible rending of
fleshy corners bulbed
to puffiness.
Red-handed,
I caught time
his knife in Youth once more
still-water decay,
brackish trouble-maker
with tint of rouge and gray.
This school-yard tough
still picking on the corner weakling.
braggadocio and upstart
spoiling for a fight
first elbow up,
each foot in a fray.
The Sonnets LXXVIII - So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse
by William Shakespeare

So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
And found such fair assistance in my verse
As every alien pen hath got my use
And under thee their poesy disperse.
Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing
And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
Have added feathers to the learned's wing
And given grace a double majesty.
Yet be most proud of that which I compile,
Whose influence is thine, and born of thee:
In others' works thou dost but mend the style,
And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;
But thou art all my art, and dost advance
As high as learning, my rude ignorance.
An Old Song
by Rudyard Kipling

So long as 'neath the Kalka hills
The tonga-horn shall ring,
So long as down the Solon dip
The hard-held ponies swing,
So long as Tara Devi sees
The lights of Simla town,
So long as Pleasure calls us up,
Or Duty drivese us down,
If you love me as I love you
What pair so happy as we two?
So long as Aces take the King,
Or backers take the bet,
So long as debt leads men to wed,
Or marriage leads to debt,
So long as little luncheons, Love,
And scandal hold their vogue,
While there is sport at Annandale
Or whisky at Jutogh,
If you love me as I love you
What knife can cut our love in two?
So long as down the rocking floor
The raving polka spins,
So long as Kitchen Lancers spur
The maddened violins,
So long as through the whirling smoke
We hear the oft-told tale,
"Twelve hundred in the Lotteries,"
And Whatshername for sale?
If you love me as I love you
We'll play the game and win it too.
So long as Lust or Lucre tempt
Straight riders from the course,
So long as with each drink we pour
Black brewage of Remorse,
So long as those unloaded guns
We keep beside the bed,
Blow off, by obvious accident,
The lucky owner's head,
If you love me as I love you
What can Life kill of Death undo?
So long as Death 'twixt dance and dance
Chills best and bravest blood,
And drops the reckless rider down
The rotten, rain-soaked khud,
So long as rumours from the North
Make loving wives afraid,
So long as Burma takes the boy
Or typhoid kills the maid,
If you love me as I love you
What knife can cut our love in two?
By all that lights our daily life
Or works our lifelong woe,
From Boileaugunge to Simla Downs
And those grim glades below,
Where, heedless of the flying hoof
And clamour overhead,
Sleep, with the grey langur for guard
Our very scornful Dead,
If you love me as I love you
All Earth is servant to us two!
By Docket, Billetdoux, and File,
By Mountain, Cliff, and Fir,
By Fan and Sword and Office-box,
By Corset, Plume, and Spur
By Riot, Revel, Waltz, and War,
By Women, Work, and Bills,
By all the life that fizzes in
The everlasting Hills,
If you love me as I love you
What pair so happy as we two?
Procne (A Fragment)
by Peter Courtney Quennell, Sir

So she became a bird, and bird-like danced
On a long sloe-bough, treading the silver blossom
With a bird's lovely feet;
And shaken blossoms fell into the hands
Of Sunlight. And he held them for a moment
And let them drop.
And in the autumn Procne came again
And leapt upon the crooked sloe-bough singing,
And the dark berries winked like earth-dimmed beads,
As the branch swung beneath her dancing feet.
The Death Of Love
by Madison Julius Cawein

So Love is dead, the Love we knew of old!
And in the sorrow of our hearts' hushed halls
A lute lies broken and a flower falls;
Love's house stands empty and his hearth lies cold.
Lone in dim places, where sweet vows were told,
In walks grown desolate, by ruined walls
Beauty decays; and on their pedestals
Dreams crumble and th' immortal gods are mold.
Music is slain or sleeps; one voice alone,
One voice awakes, and like a wandering ghost
Haunts all the echoing chambers of the Past - 
The voice of Memory, that stills to stone
The soul that hears; the mind, that, utterly lost,
Before its beautiful presence stands aghast.
To My Friend Mr J. Northleigh, Author Of "The Parallel," On His "Triumph Of The British Monarchy."
by John Dryden

So Joseph, yet a youth, expounded well
The boding dream, and did the event foretell;
Judged by the past, and drew the Parallel.
Thus early Solomon the truth explored,
The right awarded, and the babe restored.
Thus Daniel, ere to prophecy he grew,
The perjured Presbyters did first subdue,
And freed Susanna from the canting crew.
Well may our monarchy triumphant stand,
While warlike James protects both sea and land;
And, under covert of his sevenfold shield,
Thou send'st thy shafts to scour the distant field.
By law thy powerful pen has set us free;
Thou studiest that, and that may study thee.
Ode - Melbourne Shrine Of Remembrance
by Rudyard Kipling

So long as memory, valour, and faith endure,
Let these stones witness, through the years to come,
How once there was a people fenced secure
Behind great waters girdling a far home.
Their own and their land's youth ran side by side
Heedless and headlong as their unyoked seas, 
Lavish o'er all, and set in stubborn pride
Of judgment, nurtured by accepted peace.
Thus, suddenly, war took them, seas and skies
Joined with the earth for slaughter. In a breath
They, scoffing at all talk of sacrifice,
Gave themselves without idle words to death.
Thronging as cities throng to watch a game
Or their own herds move southward with the year,
Secretly, swiftly, from their ports they came,
So that before half earth had heard their name
Half earth had learned to speak of them with fear;
Because of certain men who strove to reach,
Through the red surf, the crest no man might hold,
And gave their name for ever to a beach
Which shall outlive Troy's tale when Time is old;
Because of horsemen, gathered apart and hid, 
Merciless riders whom Megiddo sent forth
When the outflanking hour struck, and bid
Them close and bar the drove-roads to the north;
And those who, when men feared the last March flood
Of Western war had risen beyond recall,
Stormed through the night from Amiens and made good,
At their glad cost, the breach that perilled all.
Then they returned to their desired land, 
The kindly cities and plains where they were bred, 
Having revealed their nation in earth's sight
So long as sacrifice and honour stand,
And their own sun at the hushed hour shall light
The shrine of these their dead!
Solitude
by Anna Akhmatova

So many stones have been thrown at me,
That I'm not frightened of them anymore,
And the pit has become a solid tower,
Tall among tall towers.
I thank the builders,
May care and sadness pass them by.
From here I'll see the sunrise earlier,
Here the sun's last ray rejoices.
And into the windows of my room
The northern breezes often fly.
And from my hand a dove eats grains of wheat...
As for my unfinished page,
The Muse's tawny hand, divinely calm
And delicate, will finish it.