DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
San Francisco
by Bret Harte (Francis)

Serene, indifferent of Fate,
Thou sittest at the Western Gate;
Upon thy height, so lately won,
Still slant the banners of the sun;
Thou seest the white seas strike their tents,
O Warder of two continents!
And, scornful of the peace that flies
Thy angry winds and sullen skies,
Thou drawest all things, small, or great,
To thee, beside the Western Gate.
O lion's whelp, that hidest fast
In jungle growth of spire and mast!
I know thy cunning and thy greed,
Thy hard high lust and willful deed,
And all thy glory loves to tell
Of specious gifts material.
Drop down, O Fleecy Fog, and hide
Her skeptic sneer and all her pride!
Wrap her, O Fog, in gown and hood
Of her Franciscan Brotherhood.
Hide me her faults, her sin and blame;
With thy gray mantle cloak her shame!
So shall she, cowled, sit and pray
Till morning bears her sins away.
Then rise, O Fleecy Fog, and raise
The glory of her coming days;
Be as the cloud that flecks the seas
Above her smoky argosies;
When forms familiar shall give place
To stranger speech and newer face;
When all her throes and anxious fears
Lie hushed in the repose of years;
When Art shall raise and Culture lift
The sensual joys and meaner thrift,
And all fulfilled the vision we
Who watch and wait shall never see;
Who, in the morning of her race,
Toiled fair or meanly in our place,
But, yielding to the common lot,
Lie unrecorded and forgot.
Senlin, A Biography: Part 03: His Cloudy Destiny - 03
by Conrad Potter Aiken

Senlin stood before us in the sunlight,
And laughed, and walked away.
Did no one see him leaving the doors of the city,
Looking behind him, as if he wished to stay?
Has no one, in the forests of the evening,
Heard the sad horn of Senlin slowly blown?
For somewhere, in the worlds-in-worlds about us,
He changes still, unfriended and alone.
Is he the star on which we walk at daybreak,
The light that blinds our eyes?
'Senlin!' we cry. 'Senlin!' again . . . no answer:
Only the soulless brilliance of blue skies.
Yet we would say, this was no man at all,
But a dream we dreamed, and vividly recall;
And we are mad to walk in wind and rain
Hoping to find, somewhere, that dream again.
Epitaph
by Sara Teasdale

Serene descent, as a red leaf's descending
When there is neither wind nor noise of rain,
But only autum air and the unending
Drawing of all things to the earth again.
So be it, let the snow fall deep and cover
All that was drunken once with light and air.
The earth will not regret her tireless lover,
Nor he awake to know she does not care.
On Seeing A Picture Of Sacred Contemplation.
by John Clare

Serene she looks, she wears an angel's form,
Her arching eyes are fix'd upon the sky,
Gloomy, yet glist'ning 'tween black curls wip'd by,
Like a bright rainbow painted on the storm:
Her blue-vein'd breasts religion's comforts warm,
The bible open'd on her lap doth lie.
What mixing beauties in her face appear!
Charms more than mortal lighten up her smiles;
Strong Faith and Hope unite her soul to cheer,
And Resignation makes her smiles more dear.
No earthly thoughts her purity defile;
As vap'ring clouds by summer's suns are driven,
Sin's temptings from the scriptures' charm recoil,
And all her soul transported seems in heaven.
Senlin, A Biography: Part 01: His Dark Origins - 02
by Conrad Potter Aiken

Senlin, walking beside us, swings his arms
And turns his head to look at walls and trees.
The wind comes whistling from shrill stars of winter,
The lights are jewels, black roots freeze.
'Did I, then, stretch from the bitter earth like these,
Reaching upward with slow and rigid pain
To seek, in another air, myself again?'
(Immense and solitary in a desert of rocks
Behold a bewildered oak
With white clouds screaming through its leafy brain.)
'Or was I the single ant, or tinier thing,
That crept from the rocks of buried time
And dedicated its holy life to climb
From atom to beetling atom, jagged grain to grain,
Patiently out of the darkness we call sleep
Into a hollow gigantic world of light
Thinking the sky to be its destined shell,
Hoping to fit it well!'
The city dissolves about us, and its walls
Are mountains of rock cruelly carved by wind.
Sand streams down their wasting sides, sand
Mounts upward slowly about them: foot and hand
We crawl and bleed among them! Is this Senlin?
In the desert of Senlin must we live and die?
We hear the decay of rocks, the crash of boulders,
Snarling of sand on sand. 'Senlin!' we cry.
'Senlin!' again . . . Our shadows revolve in silence
Under the soulless brilliance of blue sky.
Yet we would say: there are no rocks at all,
Nor desert of sand . . . here by a city wall
White lights jewell the evening, black roots freeze,
And Senlin turns his head to look at trees.
Discovered
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Seen you down at chu'ch las' night,
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.
What I mean? oh, dat 's all right,
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.
You was sma't ez sma't could be,
But you could n't hide f'om me.
Ain't I got two eyes to see!
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.
Guess you thought you's awful keen;
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.
Evahthing you done, I seen;
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.
Seen him tek yo' ahm jes' so,
When he got outside de do'--
Oh, I know dat man 's yo' beau!
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.
Say now, honey, wha 'd he say?--
Nevah min', Miss Lucy!
Keep yo' secrets--dat's yo' way--
Nevah min', Miss Lucy.
Won't tell me an' I'm yo' pal--
I'm gwine tell his othah gal,--
Know huh, too, huh name is Sal;
Nevah min', Miss Lucy!
Senlin, A Biography: Part 01: His Dark Origins - 04
by Conrad Potter Aiken

Senlin, walking before us in the sunlight,
Bending his small legs in a peculiar way,
Goes to his work with thoughts of the universe.
His hands are in his pockets, he smokes his pipe,
He is happily conscious of roofs and skies;
And, without turning his head, he turns his eyes
To regard white horses drawing a small white hearse.
The sky is brilliant between the roofs,
The windows flash in the yellow sun,
On the hard pavement ring the hoofs,
The light wheels softly run.
Bright particles of sunlight fall,
Quiver and flash, gyrate and burn,
Honey-like heat flows down the wall,
The white spokes dazzle and turn.
Senlin, walking before us in the sunlight,
Regards the hearse with an introspective eye.
'Is it my childhood there,' he asks,
'Sealed in a hearse and hurrying by?'
He taps his trowel against a stone;
The trowel sings with a silver tone.
'Nevertheless I know this well.
Bury it deep and toll a bell,
Bury it under land or sea,
You cannot bury it save in me.'
It is as if his soul had become a city,
With noisily peopled streets, and through these streets
Senlin himself comes driving a small white hearse . . .
'Senlin!' we cry. He does not turn his head.
But is that Senlin? Or is this city Senlin,
Quietly watching the burial of the dead?
Dumbly observing the cort'ge of its dead?
Yet we would say that all this is but madness:
Around a distant corner trots the hearse.
And Senlin walks before us in the sunlight
Happily conscious of his universe.
To His Coy One.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Seest thou yon smiling Orange?
Upon the tree still hangs it;
Already March bath vanish'd,
And new-born flow'rs are shooting.
I draw nigh to the tree then,
And there I say: Oh Orange,
Thou ripe and juicy Orange,
Thou sweet and luscious Orange,
I shake the tree, I shake it,
Oh fall into my lap!
Opportunity
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Send forth your heart's desire, and work and wait;
The opportunities of life are brought
To our own doors, not by capricious fate,
But by the strong compelling force of thought.
A Slander.
by Lizzie Lawson

"Shake hands, shake hands my little girl,"
Said Mister Crab to Nell,
"I'm very glad to meet you dear,
I hope you are quite well.
I think it's very hot to-day,
I feel it in my shell."
"I can't shake hands with you," said Nell,
"It isn't thought polite,
Without an introduction;
Besides, no doubt it's spite,
It mayn't be true, but still they do,
They do say that you - BITE."
Nursery Rhyme. DCXXV. Relics.
by Unknown

Shake a leg, wag a leg, when will you gang?
At midsummer, mother, when the days are lang.
Welcome To The Grand Duke Alexis
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Shadowed so long by the storm-cloud of danger,
Thou whom the prayers of an empire defend,
Welcome, thrice welcome! but not as a stranger,
Come to the nation that calls thee its friend!
Bleak are our shores with the blasts of December,
Fettered and chill is the rivulet's flow;
Throbbing and warm are the hearts that remember
Who was our friend when the world was our foe.
Look on the lips that are smiling to greet thee,
See the fresh flowers that a people has strewn
Count them thy sisters and brothers that meet thee;
Guest of the Nation, her heart is thine own!
Fires of the North, in eternal communion,
Blend your broad flashes with evening's bright star!
God bless the Empire that loves the Great Union;
Strength to her people! Long life to the Czar!
For The Avery "Knickerbocker."
by Henry Austin Dobson

(With Original Drawings By G. H. Boughton.)
Shade of Herrick, Muse of Locker,
Help me sing of Knickerbocker!
BOUGHTON, had you bid me chant
Hymns to Peter Stuyvesant!
Had you bid me sing of Wouter,
(He! the Onion-head! the Doubter!)
But to rhyme of this one,--Mocker!
Who shall rhyme to Knickerbocker?
Nay, but where my hand must fail
There the more shall yours avail;
You shall take your brush and paint
All that ring of figures quaint,--
All those Rip-van-Winkle jokers,--
All those solid-looking smokers,
Pulling at their pipes of amber
In the dark-beamed Council-Chamber.
Only art like yours can touch
Shapes so dignified ... and Dutch;
Only art like yours can show
How the pine-logs gleam and glow,
Till the fire-light laughs and passes
'Twixt the tankards and the glasses,
Touching with responsive graces
All those grave Batavian faces,--
Making bland and beatific
All that session soporific.
Then I come and write beneath,
BOUGHTON, he deserves the wreath;
He can give us form and hue--
This the Muse can never do!
Shadows
by Richard Le Gallienne

Shadows! the only shadows that I know
Are happy shadows of the light of you,
The radiance immortal shining through
Your sea-deep eyes up from the soul below;
Your shadow, like a rose's, on the grass
Where your feet pass.
The shadow of the dimple in your chin,
The shadow of the lashes of your eyes,
As on your cheek, soft as a moth, it lies;
And, as a church, I softly enter in
The solemn twilight of your mighty hair,
Down falling there.
These are Love's shadows, Love knows none but these:
Shadows that are the very soul of light,
As morning and the morning blossom bright,
Or jewelled shadows of moon-haunted seas;
The darkest shadows in this world of ours
Are made of flowers.
The Ballad Of The "Bolivar"
by Rudyard Kipling

Seven men from all the world back to Docks again,
Rolling down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain:
Give the girls another drink 'fore we sign away, 
We that took the Bolivar out across the Bay!
We put out from Sunderland loaded down with rails;
We put back to Sunderland 'cause our cargo shifted;
We put out from Sunderland, met the winter gales, 
Seven days and seven nights to The Start we drifted.
Racketing her rivets loose, smoke-stack white as snow,
All the coals adrift adeck, half the rails below,
Leaking like a lobster-pot, steering like a dray, 
Out we took the Bolivar, out across the Bay!
One by one the Lights came up, winked and let us by;
Mile by mile we waddled on, coal and fo'c'sle short;
Met a blow that laid us down, heard a bulkhead fly;
Left the Wolf behind us with a two-foot list to port.
Trailing like a wounded duck, working out her soul;
Clanging like a smithy-shop after every roll;
Just a funnel and a mast lurching through the spray, 
So we threshed the Bolivar out across the Bay!
'Felt her hog and felt her sag, betted when she'd break;
Wondered every time she raced if she'd stand the shock;
Heard the seas like drunken men pounding at her strake;
Hoped the Lord 'ud keep His thumb on the plummer-block.
Banged against the iron decks, bilges choked with coal;
Flayed and frozen foot and hand, sick of heart and soul;
'Last we prayed she'd buck herself into judgment Day, 
Hi! we cursed the Bolivar knocking round the Bay!
O her nose flung up to sky, groaning to be still, 
Up and down and back we went, never time for breath;
Then the money paid at Lloyds' caught her by the heel,
And the stars ran round and round dancin' at our death!
Aching for an hour's sleep, dozing off between;
'Heard the rotten rivets draw when she took it green;
'Watched the compass chase its tail like a cat at play, 
That was on the Bolivar, south across the Bay!
Once we saw between the squalls, lyin' head to swell, 
Mad with work and weariness, wishin' they was we, 
Some damned Liner's lights go by like a grand hotel;
Cheered her from the Bolivar swampin' in the sea.
Then a greybeard cleared us out, then the skipper laughed;
"Boys, the wheel has gone to Hell, rig the winches aft!
Yoke the kicking rudder-head, get her under way!"
So we steered her, pully-haul, out across the Bay!
Just a pack o' rotten plates puttied up with tar,
In we came, an' time enough, 'cross Bilbao Bar.
Overloaded, undermanned, meant to founder, we
Euchred God Almighty's storm, bluffed the Eternal Sea!
Seven men from all the world back to town again,
Rollin' down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain:
Seven men from out of Hell. Ain't the owners gay,
'Cause we took the "Bolivar" safe across the Bay?
Behold The Man!
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Shall Christ hang on the Cross, and we not look?
Heaven, earth, and hell stood gazing at the first,
While Christ for long-cursed man was counted cursed;
Christ, God and Man, Whom God the Father strook
And shamed and sifted and one while forsook: -
Cry shame upon our bodies we have nursed
In sweets, our souls in pride, our spirits immersed
In wilfulness, our steps run all acrook.
Cry shame upon us! for He bore our shame
In agony, and we look on at ease
With neither hearts on flame nor cheeks on flame:
What hast thou, what have I, to do with peace?
Not to send peace but send a sword He came,
And fire and fasts and tearful night-watches.
To J.W.
by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Set not thy foot on graves;
Hear what wine and roses say;
The mountain chase, the summer waves,
The crowded town, thy feet may well delay.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Nor seek to unwind the shroud
Which charitable Time
And Nature have allowed
To wrap the errors of a sage sublime.
Set not thy foot on graves;
Care not to strip the dead
Of his sad ornament,
His myrrh, and wine, and rings,
His sheet of lead,
And trophies buried:
Go, get them where he earned them when alive;
As resolutely dig or dive.
Life is too short to waste
In critic peep or cynic bark,
Quarrel or reprimand:
'T will soon be dark;
Up! mind thine own aim, and
God speed the mark!
The Recruit
by Robert William Chambers

Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"Bedad, yer a bad un!
Now turn out yer toes!
Yer belt is unhookit,
Yer cap is on crookit,
Ye may not be dhrunk,
But, be jabers, ye look it!
Wan, two!
Wan, two!
Ye monkey-faced divil, I'll jolly ye through!
Wan, two!
Time! Mark!
Ye march like the aigle in Cintheral Parrk!"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"A saint it ud sadden
To dhrill such a mug!
Eyes front! ye baboon, ye!
Chin up! ye gossoon, ye!
Ye've jaws like a goat,
Halt! ye leather-lipped loon, ye!
Wan, two!
Wan, two!
Ye whiskered orang-outang, I'll fix you!
Wan, two!
Time! Mark!
Ye've eyes like a bat! can ye see in the dark?"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"Yer figger wants padd'n',
Sure, man, ye've no shape!
Behind ye yer shoulders
Stick out like two boulders;
Yer shins is as thin
As a pair of pen-holders!
Wan, two!
Wan, two!
Yer belly belongs on yer back, ye Jew!
Wan, two!
Time! Mark!
I'm dhry as a dog, I can't shpake but I bark!"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"Me heart it ud gladden
To blacken your eye.
Ye're gettin' too bold, ye
Compel me to scold ye,
Tis halt! that I say,
Will ye heed what I told ye?
Wan, two!
Wan, two!
Be jabers, I'm dhryer than Brian Boru!
Wan, two!
Time! Mark!
What's wur-ruk for chickens is sport for the lark!"
Sez Corporal Madden to Private McFadden:
"I'll not stay a gaddin',
Wid dagoes like you!
I'll travel no farther,
I'm dyin' for, wather;
Come on, if ye like,
Can ye loan me a quather?
Ya-as, you,
What, two?
And ye'll pay the potheen? Ye're a daisy! Whurroo!
You'll do!
Whist! Mark!
The Rigiment's flattered to own ye, me spark!"
Tennyson
by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

I
Shakespeare and Milton--what third blazoned name
Shall lips of after-ages link to these?
His who, beside the wild encircling seas,
Was England's voice, her voice with one acclaim,
For threescore years; whose word of praise was fame,
Whose scorn gave pause to man's iniquities.
II
What strain was his in that Crimean war?
A bugle-call in battle; a low breath,
Plaintive and sweet, above the fields of death!
So year by year the music rolled afar,
From Euxine wastes to flowery Kandahar,
Bearing the laurel or the cypress wreath.
III
Others shall have their little space of time,
Their proper niche and bust, then fade away
Into the darkness, poets of a day;
But thou, O builder of enduring rhyme,
Thou shalt not pass!    Thy fame in every clime
On earth shall live where Saxon speech has sway.
IV
Waft me this verse across the winter sea,
Through light and dark, through mist and blinding sleet,
O winter winds, and lay it at his feet;
Though the poor gift betray my poverty,
At his feet lay it: it may chance that he
Will find no gift, where reverence is, unmeet.
The Whummil Bore
by Frank Sidgwick

The Text is from Motherwell's MS. He included it in the Appendix to his Minstrelsy. No other collector or editor notices the ballad--'if it ever were one,' as Child remarks.
The only point to be noted is that the second stanza has crept into two versions of Hind Horn, apparently because of the resemblance of the previous stanzas, which present a mere ballad-commonplace.
THE WHUMMIL BORE
1.
Seven lang years I hae served the king,
Fa fa fa fa lilly
And I never got a sight of his daughter but ane.
With my glimpy, glimpy, glimpy eedle,
Lillum too tee a ta too a tee a ta a tally
2.
I saw her thro' a whummil bore,
And I ne'er got a sight of her no more.
3.
Twa was putting on her gown,
And ten was putting pins therein.
4.
Twa was putting on her shoon,
And twa was buckling them again.
5.
Five was combing down her hair,
And I never got a sight of her nae mair.
6.
Her neck and breast was like the snow,
Then from the bore I was forced to go.
In Memoriam. - Harriet Allen Ely,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Died at Providence, Rhode Island, April 27th, 1862, aged 7 years and 2 months.
Seven blest years our darling daughter,
We have held thee to our hearts,
Every season growing dearer;
We have held thee near and nearer,
Never dreaming thus to part.
Seven brief years--our only daughter--
Sweet has been the parent rule,
Infant watch by cradle nightly,
'Till we saw thy footsteps lightly
Tripping joyously to school.
Germ of promise,--bud of beauty,
To our tenderest nurture given,
Not for our too dim beholding
Was thy fair and full unfolding;
That perfection is in Heaven.
Earth no license had to harm thee,
Time no power to touch thy bloom,
Holy is our faith to meet thee,
Glorious is our trust to greet thee
Far beyond the conquering tomb.
Trench Duty
by Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

Shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake,
Out in the trench with three hours' watch to take,
I blunder through the splashing mirk; and then
Hear the gruff muttering voices of the men
Crouching in cabins candle-chinked with light.
Hark! There's the big bombardment on our right
Rumbling and bumping; and the dark's a glare
Of flickering horror in the sectors where
We raid the Boche; men waiting, stiff and chilled,
Or crawling on their bellies through the wire.
"What? Stretcher-bearers wanted? Some one killed?"
Five minutes ago I heard a sniper fire:
Why did he do it?... Starlight overhead - 
Blank stars. I'm wide-awake; and some chap's dead.
Seven Watchmen
by Rudyard Kipling

Seven Watchmen sitting in a tower,
Watching what had come upon mankind,
Showed the Man the Glory and the Power,
And bade him shape the Kingdom to his mind.
"All things on Earth your will shall win you."
('Twas so their council ran)
"But the Kingdom, the Kingdom is within you,"
Said the Man's own mind to the Man.
For time, and some time,
As it was in the bitter years before
So it shall be in the over-sweetened hour,
That a man's mind is wont to tell him more
Than Seven Watchmen sitting in a tower.
Trench Duty
by Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

Shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake,
Out in the trench with three hours' watch to take,
I blunder through the splashing mirk; and then
Hear the gruff muttering voices of the men
Crouching in cabins candle-chinked with light.
Hark! There's the big bombardment on our right
Rumbling and bumping; and the dark's a glare
Of flickering horror in the sectors where
We raid the Boche; men waiting, stiff and chilled,
Or crawling on their bellies through the wire.
"What? Stretcher-bearers wanted? Some one killed?"
Five minutes ago I heard a sniper fire:
Why did he do it? ... Starlight overhead - 
Blank stars. I'm wide-awake; and some chap's dead.
An Appeal To America On Behalf Of The Belgian Destitute
by Thomas Hardy

Seven millions stand
Emaciate, in that ancient Delta-land:-
We here, full-charged with our own maimed and dead,
And coiled in throbbing conflicts slow and sore,
Can poorly soothe these ails unmerited
Of souls forlorn upon the facing shore! -
Where naked, gaunt, in endless band on band
Seven millions stand.
No man can say
To your great country that, with scant delay,
You must, perforce, ease them in their loud need:
We know that nearer first your duty lies;
But - is it much to ask that you let plead
Your lovingkindness with you - wooing-wise -
Albeit that aught you owe, and must repay,
No man can say?
December 1914.
Noon
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Shadder in de valley
Sunlight on de hill,
Sut'ny wish dat locus'
Knowed how to be still.
Don't de heat already
Mek a body hum,
'Dout dat insec' sayin'
Hottah days to come?
Fiel' 's a shinin' yaller
Wid de bendin' grain,
Guinea hen a callin',
Now's de time fu' rain;
Shet yo' mouf, you rascal,
Wha' 's de use to cry?
You do' see no rain clouds
Up dah in de sky.
Dis hyeah sweat's been po'in'
Down my face sence dawn;
Ain't hit time we 's hyeahin'
Dat ah dinnah ho'n?
Go on, Ben an' Jaspah,
Lif yo' feet an' fly,
Hit out fu' de shadder
Fo' I drap an' die.
Hongry, lawd a' mussy,
Hongry as a baih,
Seems lak I hyeah dinnah
Callin' evahwhaih;
Daih 's de ho'n a blowin'!
Let dat cradle swing,
One mo' sweep, den da'kies,
Beat me to de spring!
The Dole Of The King's Daughter (Breton)
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

Seven stars in the still water,
And seven in the sky;
Seven sins on the King's daughter,
Deep in her soul to lie.
Red roses are at her feet,
(Roses are red in her red-gold hair)
And O where her bosom and girdle meet
Red roses are hidden there.
Fair is the knight who lieth slain
Amid the rush and reed,
See the lean fishes that are fain
Upon dead men to feed.
Sweet is the page that lieth there,
(Cloth of gold is goodly prey,)
See the black ravens in the air,
Black, O black as the night are they.
What do they there so stark and dead?
(There is blood upon her hand)
Why are the lilies flecked with red?
(There is blood on the river sand.)
There are two that ride from the south and east,
And two from the north and west,
For the black raven a goodly feast,
For the King's daughter rest.
There is one man who loves her true,
(Red, O red, is the stain of gore!)
He hath duggen a grave by the darksome yew,
(One grave will do for four.)
No moon in the still heaven,
In the black water none,
The sins on her soul are seven,
The sin upon his is one.