DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Granny Canty.
by George MacDonald

"What maks ye sae canty, granny dear?
Has some kin' body been for ye to speir?
Ye luik as smilin an' fain an' willin
As gien ye had fun a bonny shillin!"
"Ye think I luik canty, my bonny man,
Sittin watchin the last o' the sun sae gran'?
Weel, an' I'm thinkin ye're no that wrang,
For 'deed i' my hert there's a wordless sang!
"Ken ye the meanin o' canty, my dow?
It's bein i' the humour o' singin, I trow!
An' though nae sang ever crosses my lips
I'm aye like to sing whan anither sun dips.
"For the time, wee laddie, the time grows lang
Sin' I saw the man wha's sicht was my sang--
Yer gran'father, that's--an' the sun's last glim
Says aye to me, 'Lass, ye're a mile nearer him!
"For he's hame afore me, an' lang's the road!
He fain at my side wud hae timed his plod,
But, eh, he was sent for, an' hurried awa!
Noo, I'm thinkin he's harkin to hear my fit-fa'."
"But, grannie, yer face is sae lirkit an' thin,
Wi' a doun-luikin nose an' an up-luikin chin,
An' a mou clumpit up oot o' sicht atween,
Like the witherin half o' an auld weary mune!"
"Hoot, laddie, ye needna glower yersel blin'!
The body 'at loos, sees far throu the skin;
An', believe me or no, the hoor's comin amain
Whan ugly auld fowk 'ill be bonny again.
"For there is ane--an' it's no my dear man,
Though I loo him as nane but a wife's hert can--
The joy o' beholdin wha's gran' lovely face
Til mak me like him in a' 'at's ca'd grace.
"But what I am like I carena a strae
Sae lang as I'm his, an' what he wud hae!
Be ye a guid man, John, an' ae day ye'll ken
What maks granny canty yont four score an' ten."
Thoughts On The 1St October, 1781.
by Friedrich Schiller

What mean the joyous sounds from yonder vine-clad height?
What the exulting Evoe? [63]
Why glows the cheek? Whom is't that I, with pinions light,
Swinging the lofty Thyrsus see?
Is it the genius whom the gladsome throng obeys?
Do I his numerous train descry?
In plenty's teeming horn the gifts of heaven he sways,
And reels from very ecstacy!
See how the golden grape in glorious beauty shines,
Kissed by the earliest morning-beams!
The shadow of yon bower, how lovingly it signs,
As it with countless blessings teams!
Ha! glad October, thou art welcome unto me!
October's first-born, welcome thou!
Thanks of a purer kind, than all who worship thee,
More heartfelt thanks I'm bringing now!
For thou to me the one whom I have loved so well,
And love with fondness to the grave,
Who merits in my heart forevermore to dwell,
The best of friends in Rieger [64] gave.
'Tis true thy breath doth rock the leaves upon the trees,
And sadly make their charms decay;
Gently they fall: and swift, as morning phantasies
With those who waken, fly away.
'Tis true that on thy track the fleecy spoiler hastes,
Who makes all Nature's chords resound
With discord dull, and turns the plains and groves to wastes,
So that they sadly mourn around.
See how the gloomy forms of years, as on they roll,
Each joyous banquet overthrows,
When, in uplifted hand, from out the foaming bowl,
Joy's noble purple brightly flows!
See how they disappear, when friends sweet converse hold,
And loving wander arm-in-arm;
And, to revenge themselves on winter's north wind cold,
Upon each other's breasts grow warm!
And when spring's children smile upon us once again,
When all the youthful splendor bright,
When each melodious note of each sweet rapturous strain
Awakens with it each delight:
How joyous then the stream that our whole soul pervades!
What life from out our glances pours!
Sweet Philomela's song, resounding through the glades,
Ourselves, our youthful strength restores!
Oh, may this whisper breathe (let Rieger bear in mind
The storm by which in age we're bent!)
His guardian angel, when the evening's star so kind
Gleams softly from the firmament!
In silence be he led to yonder thundering height,
And guided be his eye, that he,
In valley and on plain, may see his friends aright.
And that, with growing ecstacy,
On yonder holy spot, when he their number tells,
He may experience friendship's bliss,
Now first unveiled, until with pride his bosom swells,
Conscious that all their love is his.
Then will the distant voice be loudly heard to say:
"And G , too, is a friend of thine!
When silvery locks no more around his temples play,
G still will be a friend of thine!"
"E'en yonder" and now in his eye the crystal tear
Will gleam "e'en yonder he will love!
Love thee too, when his heart, in yonder spring-like sphere,
Linked on to thine, can rapture prove!"
Upon Bran. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

What made that mirth last night? the neighbours say,
That Bran the baker did his breech beray:
I rather think, though they may speak the worst,
'Twas to his batch, but leaven laid there first.
A Mayapple Flower
by Madison Julius Cawein

What magic through your snowy crystal gleams!
Your hollow spar, Spring brims with fragrancy;
That, like the cup of Comus, drugs with dreams
This woodland place, so drowsed with mystery.
What miracle evolved you from the mold?
Dreamed you, as 't were, into reality
Out of the Winter's death and night and cold?
Are you a sign, a message, that the Spring
Out of her soul unto the eye reveals?
A symboled something, telling many a thing
Of beauty she within her breast conceals?
The word significant, that conquers Death;
That through eternity with Nature deals,
As did the Christ, Jesus of Nazareth.
Or, of the rapture of the Earth a part,
Are you a thought that crystallized from dew
Into a flower? Nature, on her heart,
Bewildered with the hope from whence you grew
Your loveliness, wears as an evidence
Of immortality; a hint, a clue
To that which still evades our mortal sense.
The Miracle Of The Dawn
by Madison Julius Cawein

What it would mean for you and me
If dawn should come no more!
Think of its gold along the sea,
Its rose above the shore!
That rose of awful mystery,
Our souls bow down before.
What wonder that the Inca kneeled,
The Aztec prayed and pled
And sacrificed to it, and sealed,
With rights that long are dead,
The marvels that it once revealed
To them it comforted.
What wonder, yea! what awe, behold!
What rapture and what tears
Were ours, if wild its rivered gold,
That now each day appears,
Burst on the world, in darkness rolled,
Once every thousand years!
Think what it means to me and you
To see it even as God
Evolved it when the world was new!
When Light rose, earthquake-shod,
And slow its gradual splendor grew
O'er deeps the whirlwind trod.
What shoutings then and cymballings
Arose from depth and height!
What worship-solemn trumpetings,
And thunders, burning-white,
Of winds and waves, and anthemings
Of Earth received the Light.
Think what it means to see the dawn!
The dawn, that comes each day!
What if the East should ne'er grow wan,
Should nevermore grow gray!
That line of rose no more be drawn
Above the ocean's spray!
A Last Confession
by William Butler Yeats

What lively lad most pleasured me
Of all that with me lay?
I answer that I gave my soul
And loved in misery,
But had great pleasure with a lad
That I loved bodily.
Flinging from his arms I laughed
To think his passion such
He fancied that I gave a soul
Did but our bodies touch,
And laughed upon his breast to think
Beast gave beast as much.
I gave what other women gave
That stepped out of their clothes.
But when this soul, its body off,
Naked to naked goes,
He it has found shall find therein
What none other knows,
And give his own and take his own
And rule in his own right;
And though it loved in misery
Close and cling so tight,
There's not a bird of day that dare
Extinguish that delight.
Prologue
by Madison Julius Cawein

What loveliness the years contrive
To rob us of! what exquisite
Beliefs, in which thought chanced to hit
On truths that with the world survive!
Dream-truths, that still attend their flocks
On the high hills of heart and mind,
Peopling the streams, the woods and rocks
With Beauty running like the wind.
They are not dead; but year by year
Still hold us through the inner eye
Of thought, and so can never die
As long as there's one heart to hear
Nature addressing words of love,
(As once she spoke to Rome and Greece,)
Unto the soul, whose faith shall prove
The dream will last though all else cease.
Fragment. Adapted From The Vita Nuova Of Dante.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

What Mary is when she a little smiles
I cannot even tell or call to mind,
It is a miracle so new, so rare.
The Great Physician.
by Mary Ann H. T. Bigelow

"And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the Son of man be lifted up.
"That whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have eternal life."
St. John, 3:14, 15.
What means that cry of anguish,
That strikes the distant ear;
The loud and piercing wailing,
In desert wilds we hear?
From Israel's camp it cometh,
For Israel hath rebelled;
And these are cries of anguish,
By wrath of God impelled.
It is no common sorrow,
Extorts that bitter groan;
'Tis from the broken hearted,
And caused by sin alone.
Lo! in the far off desert,
Upon that tented ground,
Are many hundred thousands
Of weary travellers found.
In desert of Arabia,
Near forty years they roam;
And soon they are to enter
"Canaan their happy home."
But come with me and visit
A people so distressed;
They are the seed that Jacob
When dying pronounced blessed.
We'll draw aside the curtain
Of tent that's nearest by;
Ah! what a mournful picture
For stranger's curious eye.
See on that couch reclining,
A young and lovely girl,
With brow and neck half shaded.
By many a clustering curl.
She was an only daughter,
Nurtured with tenderest care;
The idol of her parents,
And fairest of the fair.
In bloom of youth and beauty,
But yesterday she shone;
And her fond parents thought her
A mine of wealth unknown.
She seems like one that sleepeth,
But there's no sign of breath;
And coil'd 'neath her arm a serpent,
Whose bite is certain death.
Yet not alone the mourners
In this sad tent are found;
Shriek after shriek is echoed
For many miles around.
The mother, too, is bitten,
With infant in her arms;
And sire, in strength of manhood;
And bride, with all her charms.
But see on pole suspended,
A serpent now appears;
And hark! what blissful tidings
Salute the mourner's ears.
For every one that's bitten,
A remedy is found;
However bad the case is,
However deep the wound.
If but one spark remaineth
Of life in any soul,
Just look upon this serpent,
That look will make thee whole.
But there's a wound that's deeper
Than fiery serpent gave;
And bite that's doubly fatal,
It kills beyond the grave.
And there's a great physician,
That e'en this wound may cure;
And those to him applying,
May life and health secure.
The broken heart he healeth,
He cures the sin-sick soul;
And all who will behold him,
May look and be made whole.
"I am the way!" he crieth;
"And all who will may come,
I'll pardon their transgression,
And safe conduct them home.
"To cleanse from all pollution,
My blood doth freely flow;
And sins, though red as scarlet,
Shall be as white as snow.
"Thy ransom to pay for thee,
E'en my own life it cost;
And he such love that slighteth,
Forever shall be lost."
April 14, 1853.
Prior To Miss Belle's Appearance
by James Whitcomb Riley

What makes you come HERE fer, Mister,
So much to our house? - SAY?
Come to see our big sister! -
An' Charley he says 'at you kissed her
An' he ketched you, th'uther day! -
Didn' you, Charley? - But we p'omised Belle
An' crossed our heart to never to tell -
'Cause SHE gived us some o' them-er
Chawk'lut-drops 'at you bringed to her!
Charley he's my little b'uther -
An' we has a-mostest fun,
Don't we, Charley? - Our Muther,
Whenever we whips one anuther,
Tries to whip US - an' we RUN -
Don't we, Charley? - An' nen, bime-by,
Nen she gives us cake - an' pie -
Don't she, Charley? - when we come in
An' pomise never to do it ag'in!
HE'S named Charley. - I'm WILLIE -
An' I'm got the purtiest name!
But Uncle Bob HE calls me "Billy" -
Don't he, Charley? - 'N' our filly
We named "Billy," the same
Ist like me!    An' our Ma said
'At "Bob puts foolishnuss into our head!" -
Didn' she, Charley? - An' SHE don't know
Much about BOYS! - 'Cause Bob said so!
Baby's a funniest feller!
Nain't no hair on his head -
IS they, Charley? - It's meller
Wite up there!    An' ef Belle er
Us ask wuz WE that way, Ma said, -
"Yes; an' yer PA'S head wuz soft as that,
An' it's that way yet!" - An' Pa grabs his hat
An' says, "Yes, childern, she's right about Pa -
'Cause that's the reason he married yer Ma!"
An' our Ma says 'at "Belle couldn'
Ketch nothin' at all but ist 'BOWS!" -
An' PA says 'at "you're soft as puddun!" -
An' UNCLE BOB says "you're a good-un -
'Cause he can tell by yer nose!"-
Didn' he, Charley? - An' when Belle'll play
In the poller on th' pianer, some day,
Bob makes up funny songs about you,
Till she gits mad-like he wants her to!
Our sister FANNY she's 'LEVEN
Years old!    'At's mucher 'an I -
Ain't it, Charley? . . .    I'm seven! -
But our sister Fanny's in HEAVEN!
Nere's where you go ef you die! -
Don't you, Charley? - Nen you has WINGS -
IST LIKE FANNY! - an' PURTIEST THINGS! -
Don't you, Charley? - An' nen you can FLY -
Ist fly-an' EVER'thing! . . . I Wisht I'D die!
On Seeing The Apollo Belvidere
by Thomas Oldham

What majesty! what elegance and grace!
The form how perfect! how divine the face!
In admiration rapt, I gazing stand:
Is this a statue wrought by mortal hand?
No! 'tis Apollo's self, methinks I see;
I feel the presence of the Deity.
Tefkir Name. - Book Of Contemplation. Five Things.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

What makes time short to me?
Activity!
What makes it long and spiritless?
'Tis idleness!
What brings us to debt?
To delay and forget!
What makes us succeed?
Decision with speed
How to fame to ascend?
Oneself to defend!
A Picture At Newstead
by Matthew Arnold

What made my heart, at Newstead, fullest swell?
'Twas not the thought of Byron, of his cry
Stormily sweet, his Titan agony;
It was the sight of that Lord Arundel
Who struck, in heat, the child he loved so well,
And the child's reason flickered, and did die.
Painted (he will'd it) in the gallery
They hang; the picture doth the story tell.
Behold the stern, mail'd father, staff in hand!
The little fair-hair'd son, with vacant gaze,
Where no more lights of sense or knowledge are!
Methinks the woe which made that father stand
Baring his dumb remorse to future days,
Was woe than Byron's woe more tragic far.
Interlude
by John Drinkwater

What love is; how I love; how builders' clay
By love is lit into a golden spending;
How love calls beautiful ghosts back to the day;
How life because of love shall have no ending, 
These with the dawn I have begun to sing,
These with the million-budded noon that's rising
Shall be a theme, with love's consent, to bring
My song to some imperishable devising.
And may the petals of this garland fall
On every quarrel, and in fragrance bless
Old friendship; and a little comfort all
The weary loves that walk the wilderness,
While still my song I consecrate alone
To her who taking it shall take her own.
Bartim'us
by Nancy Rebecca Campbell Glass

"What means this throng?" a blind man said,
Whilst begging by the highway side;
Begging and blind, and lacking bread,
His ears discern the living tide.
"Jesus of Nazareth passeth by,"
Was answered. Had he heard aright?
Oh, was the heavenly healer nigh,
He who could give the blind their sight?
"Jesus, have mercy!" lo, he cried,
"Oh, son of David, pity me!"
And when the jeering crowd deride,
His accents form a clearer plea.
Jesus stood still. A kindly voice
Bade him good cheer "He calleth thee."
Thus must his lonely heart rejoice,
"He thinks of me; yes, even me!"
Bartim'us found the Living Light
Who asked and granted his request.
His blinded eyes received their sight;
With joy he followed with the rest.
How oft when Jesus passes by,
The heart-blind hear but don't perceive,
Else how they would for mercy cry
Ere Christ their Lord should take his leave!
Like him of whom this story's told
They'd pray, "Lord Jesus, pity me!"
And find his power and love could fold
Them here and in eternity.
Astrophel and Stella - Sonnet XXXV
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

What may words say, or what may words not say,
Where Truth itself must speake like Flatterie?
Within what bounds can one his liking stay,
Where Nature doth with infinite agree?
What Nestors counsell can my flames alay,
Since Reasons self doth blow the coale in me?
And, ah, what hope that Hope should once see day,
Where Cupid is sworn page to Chastity?
Honour is honour'd that thou dost possesse
Him as thy slaue, and now long-needy Fame
Doth euen grow rich, meaning my Stellaes name.
Wit learnes in thee perfection to expresse:
Not thou by praise, but praise in thee is raisde:
It is a praise to praise, when thou art praisde.
Liberty.
by John Milton Hay

What man is there so bold that he should say,
"Thus, and thus only, would I have the sea"?
For whether lying calm and beautiful,
Clasping the earth in love, and throwing back
The smile of heaven from waves of amethyst;
Or whether, freshened by the busy winds,
It bears the trade and navies of the world
To ends of use or stern activity;
Or whether, lashed by tempests, it gives way
To elemental fury, howls and roars
At all its rocky barriers, in wild lust
Of ruin drinks the blood of living things,
And strews its wrecks o'er leagues of desolate shore, -
Always it is the sea, and men bow down
Before its vast and varied majesty.
So all in vain will timorous ones essay
To set the metes and bounds of Liberty.
For Freedom is its own eternal law;
It makes its own conditions, and in storm
Or calm alike fulfils the unerring Will.
Let us not then despise it when it lies
Still as a sleeping lion, while a swarm
Of gnat-like evils hover round its head;
Nor doubt it when in mad, disjointed times
It shakes the torch of terror, and its cry
Shrills o'er the quaking earth, and in the flame
Of riot and war we see its awful form
Rise by the scaffold, where the crimson axe
Rings down its grooves the knell of shuddering kings.
For ever in thine eyes, O Liberty,
Shines that high light whereby the world is saved,
And though thou slay us, we will trust in thee!
The Sonnets LIII - What is your substance, whereof are you made
by William Shakespeare

What is your substance, whereof are you made,
That millions of strange shadows on you tend?
Since every one, hath every one, one shade,
And you but one, can every shadow lend.
Describe Adonis, and the counterfeit
Is poorly imitated after you;
On Helen's cheek all art of beauty set,
And you in Grecian tires are painted new:
Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,
The one doth shadow of your beauty show,
The other as your bounty doth appear;
And you in every blessed shape we know.
In all external grace you have some part,
But you like none, none you, for constant heart.
The Wandering Bard.
by Thomas Moore

What life like that of the bard can be--
The wandering bard, who roams as free
As the mountain lark that o'er him sings,
And, like that lark, a music brings
Within him, where'er he comes or goes,--
A fount that for ever flows!
The world's to him like some playground,
Where fairies dance their moonlight round;--
If dimmed the turf where late they trod,
The elves but seek some greener sod;
So, when less bright his scene of glee,
To another away flies he!
Oh, what would have been young Beauty's doom,
Without a bard to fix her bloom?
They tell us, in the moon's bright round,
Things lost in this dark world are found;
So charms, on earth long past and gone,
In the poet's lay live on.--
Would ye have smiles that ne'er grow dim?
You've only to give them all to him.
Who, with but a touch of Fancy's wand,
Can lend them life, this life beyond,
And fix them high, in Poesy's sky,--
Young stars that never die!
Then, welcome the bard where'er he comes,--
For, tho' he hath countless airy homes,
To which his wing excursive roves,
Yet still, from time to time, he loves
To light upon earth and find such cheer
As brightens our banquet here.
No matter how far, how fleet he flies,
You've only to light up kind young eyes,
Such signal-fires as here are given,--
And down he'll drop from Fancy's heaven,
The minute such call to love or mirth
Proclaims he's wanting on earth!
The Fall of Richmond.
by Herman Melville

The tidings received in the Northern Metropolis.
(April, 1865.)
What mean these peals from every tower,
And crowds like seas that sway?
The cannon reply; they speak the heart
Of the People impassioned, and say - 
A city in flags for a city in flames,
Richmond goes Babylon's way - 
Sing and pray.
O weary years and woeful wars,
And armies in the grave;
But hearts unquelled at last deter
The helmed dilated Lucifer - 
Honor to Grant the brave,
Whose three stars now like Orion's rise
When wreck is on the wave - 
Bless his glaive.
Well that the faith we firmly kept,
And never our aim forswore
For the Terrors that trooped from each recess
When fainting we fought in the Wilderness,
And Hell made loud hurrah;
But God is in Heaven, and Grant in the Town,
And Right through might is Law - 
God's way adore.
The Garland And The Girdle.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Quanta si gode, lieta.
What joy hath yon glad wreath of flowers that is
Around her golden hair so deftly twined,
Each blossom pressing forward from behind,
As though to be the first her brows to kiss!
The livelong day her dress hath perfect bliss,
That now reveals her breast, now seems to bind:
And that fair woven net of gold refined
Rests on her cheek and throat in happiness!
Yet still more blissful seems to me the band
Gilt at the tips, so sweetly doth it ring
And clasp the bosom that it serves to lace:
Yea, and the belt to such as understand,
Bound round her waist, saith: here I'd ever cling.--
What would my arms do in that girdle's place?
What Little Things!
by Madison Julius Cawein

From "One Day and Another"
What little things are those
That hold our happiness!
A smile, a glance, a rose
Dropped from her hair or dress;
A word, a look, a touch, - 
These are so much, so much.
An air we can't forget;
A sunset's gold that gleams;
A spray of mignonette,
Will fill the soul with dreams
More than all history says,
Or romance of old days.
For of the human heart,
Not brain, is memory;
These things it makes a part
Of its own entity;
The joys, the pains whereof
Are the very food of love.
For The Meeting Of The National Sanitary Association 1860
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

What makes the Healing Art divine?
The bitter drug we buy and sell,
The brands that scorch, the blades that shine,
The scars we leave, the "cures" we tell?
Are these thy glories, holiest Art, - 
The trophies that adorn thee best, - 
Or but thy triumph's meanest part, - 
Where mortal weakness stands confessed?
We take the arms that Heaven supplies
For Life's long battle with Disease,
Taught by our various need to prize
Our frailest weapons, even these.
But ah! when Science drops her shield - 
Its peaceful shelter proved in vain - 
And bares her snow-white arm to wield
The sad, stern ministry of pain;
When shuddering o'er the fount of life,
She folds her heaven-anointed wings,
To lift unmoved the glittering knife
That searches all its crimson springs;
When, faithful to her ancient lore,
She thrusts aside her fragrant balm
For blistering juice, or cankering ore,
And tames them till they cure or calm;
When in her gracious hand are seen
The dregs and scum of earth and seas,
Her kindness counting all things clean
That lend the sighing sufferer ease;
Though on the field that Death has won,
She save some stragglers in retreat; - 
These single acts of mercy done
Are but confessions of defeat.
What though our tempered poisons save
Some wrecks of life from aches and ails;
Those grand specifics Nature gave
Were never poised by weights or scales!
God lent his creatures light and air,
And waters open to the skies;
Man locks him in a stifling lair,
And wonders why his brother dies!
In vain our pitying tears are shed,
In vain we rear the sheltering pile
Where Art weeds out from bed to bed
The plagues we planted by the mile!
Be that the glory of the past;
With these our sacred toils begin
So flies in tatters from its mast
The yellow flag of sloth and sin,
And lo! the starry folds reveal
The blazoned truth we hold so dear
To guard is better than to heal, - 
The shield is nobler than the spear!