DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Words And Thoughts
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

He said as he sat in her theatre box
Between the acts, "What beastly weather!
How like a parrot the lover talks - 
And the lady is tame, and the villain stalks - 
I hope they finally die together."
He thought - "You are fair as the dawn's first ray;
I know the angels keep guard above you.
And so I chatter of weather, and play,
While all the time I am mad to say,
I love you, love you, love you."
He said -    "The season is almost run;
How glad we are, when the whirl is over!
For the toil of pleasure is more than its fun,
And what is it all, when all is done,
But the stick of a rocket that has descended?"
He thought - "Oh God! to be off somewhere
Afar with you, from this scene of fashion;
To know you were mine, and to have you care,
And to lose myself in the crimson snare
Of your lips, in a kiss of passion."
He said - "You are going abroad, no doubt,
This land of Liberty coldly scorning.
I too shall journey a bit about,
From Wall Street up by the L. Road out
To Harlem, and down each morning."
He thought - "It must follow on land or sea,
This pent-up, passionate, dumb devotion,
Till the cry of a rapture that may not be
Shall reach your heart from the heart of me
And stir you with strange emotion."
Mrs. Meyers
by Edgar Lee Masters

He protested all his life long
The newspapers lied about him villainously;
That he was not at fault for Minerva's fall,
But only tried to help her.
Poor soul so sunk in sin he could not see
That even trying to help her, as he called it,
He had broken the law human and divine.
Passers by, an ancient admonition to you:
If your ways would be ways of pleasantness,
And all your pathways peace,
Love God and keep his commandments.
When Gassy Thompson Struck it Rich
by Vachel Lindsay

He paid a Swede twelve bits an hour
Just to invent a fancy style
To spread the celebration paint
So it would show at least a mile.
Some things they did I will not tell.
They're not quite proper for a rhyme.
But I WILL say Yim Yonson Swede
Did sure invent a sunflower time.
One thing they did that I can tell
And not offend the ladies here: - 
They took a goat to Simp's Saloon
And made it take a bath in beer.
That ENTERprise took MANagement.
They broke a wash-tub in the fray.
But mister goat was bathed all right
And bar-keep Simp was, too, they say.
They wore girls' pink straw hats to church
And clucked like hens.    They surely did.
They bought two HOtel frying pans
And in them down the mountain slid.
They went to Denver in good clothes,
And kept Burt's grill-room wide awake,
And cut about like jumping-jacks,
And ordered seven-dollar steak.
They had the waiters whirling round
Just sweeping up the smear and smash.
They tried to buy the State-house flag.
They showed the Janitor the cash.
And old Dan Tucker on a toot,
Or John Paul Jones before the breeze,
Or Indians eating fat fried dog,
Were not as happy babes as these.
One morn, in hills near Cripple-creek
With cheerful swears the two awoke.
The Swede had twenty cents, all right.
But Gassy Thompson was clean broke.
The Blind Man Of Jericho.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

He sat by the dusty way-side,
With weary, hopeless mien,
On his furrowed brow the traces
Of care and want were seen;
With outstretched hand and with bowed-down head
He asked the passers-by for bread.
The palm-tree's feathery foliage
Around him thickly grew,
And the smiling sky above him
Wore Syria's sun-bright hue;
But dark alike to that helpless one
Was murky midnight or noon-tide sun.
But voices breaking the silence
Are heard, fast drawing nigh,
And falls on his ear the clamor
Of vast crowds moving by:
"What is it?" he asks, with panting breath;
They answer: "Jesus of Nazareth."
What a spell lay in that title,
Linked with such mem'ries high
Of miracles of mercy,
Wrought 'neath Judaea's sky!
Loud calls he, with pleading voice and brow,
"Oh! Jesus, on me have mercy now!"
How often had he listened
To wond'rous tales of love - 
Of the Galilean's mercy,
Of power from above,
To none other given of mortal birth
To heal the afflicted sons of earth.
With faith that never wavered
Still louder rose his cry,
Despite the stern rebuking
Of many standing nigh,
Who bade him stifle his grief or joy,
Nor "the Master rudely thus annoy."
But, soon that voice imploring
Struck on the Saviour's ear,
He stopped, and to His followers
He said "Go bring him here!"
And, turning towards him that God like brow,
He asked the suppliant, "What wouldest thou?"
Though with awe and hope all trembling,
Yet courage gaineth he,
And imploringly he murmurs:
"Oh Lord! I fain would see!"
The Saviour says in accents low:
"Thy faith hath saved thee - be it so!"
Then on those darkened eye-balls
A wondrous radiance beamed,
And they drank in the glorious beauty
That through all nature gleamed;
But the fairest sight they rested on
Was the Saviour, David's royal Son.
O rapture past all telling!
The bliss that vision brought!
Could a whole life's praises thank Him
For the wonder He had wrought?
Yet is Jesus the same to-day as then,
Bringing light and joy to the souls of men.
The Little Fat Doctor.
by James Whitcomb Riley

He seemed so strange to me, every way - 
In manner, and form, and size,
From the boy I knew but yesterday, - 
I could hardly believe my eyes!
To hear his name called over there,
My memory thrilled with glee
And leaped to picture him young and fair
In youth, as he used to be.
But looking, only as glad eyes can,
For the boy I knew of yore,
I smiled on a portly little man
I had never seen before! - 
Grave as a judge in courtliness - 
Professor-like and bland - 
A little fat doctor and nothing less,
With his hat in his kimboed hand.
But how we talked old times, and "chaffed"
Each other with "Minnie" and "Jim" - -
And how the little fat doctor laughed,
And how I laughed with him!
"And it's pleasant," I thought, "though I yearn to see
The face of the youth that was,
To know no boy could smile on me
As the little fat doctor does!"
Am Rhein. - No. III. (Index) - Nonnenwerth.
by Charles G. Leland

He shtood peside de Kloster-place,
Oopon de Rheinisch shore,
Und dere he saw a lofely face,
He'd seen in treams pefore.
'Feinslieb, und will'st dou go mit me?
Feinsllieb, make no delay;
For rocks ish shdeep und vales ish teep,
Und dings ish in de way.'
'Und oh! how can I go mit dir,
Or flyen out of land?
Der bischof holts me py de law,
Der Rheingraf by der hand.
'Liebsherz, if dou could'st landwarts gehn,
I'd follow willingly;
Boot we are leafs, und shdrong's de shdem
Vitch pinds oos to de dree.'
'Der briest who helt dee py de law
Ish now a broken man;
Der Rheingraf who vouldt marry dee
Ish in der Kaisar's ban.
'Und if de Kloster-beoples here
Vill shdop your goin to town,
Bei Gott! I'll burn von half of dem,
De oder half I'll trown!
'Denn linger not to back dy drunk,
Boot led our lofe hafe vings;
Dere's milliners in fair Cologne,
Vill make you avery dings.'
She toorn her eyes im mondenschein,
She schmile so heafenly;
'Dear lofe, so shendle und so goot!
I'll cut away mit dee.
'Und do not kill de Kloster-volk,
'Tvouldt only bring tiscrace!
Dough if I had de abbess here,
Lort! how I'd slap her vace!'
De moonlighdt blayed oopon de drees,
It shined oopon de blain,
Two forms rode in de mitnight woods,
Und nefer coomed again.
He Put The Belt Around My Life,
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

He put the belt around my life, --
I heard the buckle snap,
And turned away, imperial,
My lifetime folding up
Deliberate, as a duke would do
A kingdom's title-deed, --
Henceforth a dedicated sort,
A member of the cloud.
Yet not too far to come at call,
And do the little toils
That make the circuit of the rest,
And deal occasional smiles
To lives that stoop to notice mine
And kindly ask it in, --
Whose invitation, knew you not
For whom I must decline?
William Marion Reedy
by Edgar Lee Masters

He sits before you silent as Buddha,
And then you say
This man is Rabelais.
And while you wonder what his stock is,
English or Irish, you behold his eyes
As big and brown as those desirable crockies
With which as boys we used to play.
And then you see the spherical light that lies
Just under the iris coloring,
Before which everything,
Becomes as plain as day.
If you have noticed the rolling jowls
And the face that speaks its chief
Delight in beer and roast beef
Before you have seen his eyes, you see
A man of fleshly jollity,
Like the friars of old in gowns and cowls
To make a show of scowls.
And when he speaks from an orotund depth that growls
In a humorous way like Fielding or Smollett
That turns in a trice to Robert La Follette
Or retraces to Thales of Crete,
And touches upon Descartes coming back
Through the intellectual Zodiac
That's something of a feat.
And you see that the eyes are really the man,
For the thought of him proliferates
This way over to Hindostan,
And that way descanting on Yeats.
With a word on Plato's symposium,
And a little glimpse of Theocritus,
Or something of Bruno's martyrdom,
Or what St. Thomas Aquinas meant
By a certain line obscure to us.
And then he'll take up Horace's odes
Or the Roman civilization;
Or a few of the Iliad's episodes,
Or the Greek deterioration.
Or skip to a word on the plasmic jelly,
Which Benjamin Moore and others think
Is the origin of life. Then Shelley
Comes in a for a look of understanding.
Or he'll tell you about the orientation
Of the ancient dream of Zion.
Or what's the matter with Bryan.
And while the porter is bringing a drink
Something into his fancy skips
And he talks about the Apocalypse,
Or a painter or writer now unknown
In France or Germany who will soon
Have fame of him through the whole earth blown.
It's not so hard a thing to be wise
In the lore of books.
It's a different thing to be all eyes,
Like a lighthouse which revolves and looks
Over the land and out to sea:
And a lighthouse is what he seems to me!
Sitting like Buddha spiritually cool,
Young as the light of the sun is young,
And taking the even with the odd
As a matter of course, and the path he's trod
As a path that was good enough.
With a sort of transcendental sense
Whose hatred is less than indifference,
And a gift of wisdom in love.
And who can say as he classifies
Men and ages with his eyes
With cool detachment: this is dung,
And that poor fellow is just a fool.
And say what you will death is a rod.
But I see a light that shines and shines
And I rather think it's God.
The Living Picture
by Edward Dyson

He rode along one splendid noon,
When all the hills were lit with Spring,
And through the bushland throbbed a croon
Of every living, hopeful thing.
Between his teeth a rose he bore
As white as milk, and passing there
He tossed it with a laugh. I wore
It as it fell among my hair.
No day a-drip with golden rain,
No heat with drench of wattle scent
Can touch the heart of me again
But with that young, sweet wonder blent.
We wed upon a gusty day,
When baffled fury whipped the sea;
And now I love the swift, wet play
Of wind and rain besetting me.
I took white roses in my hand,
A white rose on my forehead shone,
For we had come to understand
White roses bloomed for us alone.
When scarce a year had gone he sped
To fight the wars. With eyes grown grim
He kissed my lips, and whispering said:
'The world we must keep sweet for him!'
He wrote of war, the soldier's life.
''Tis hard, my dearest, but be brave.
I did not make my love my wife
To be the mother of a slave!'
My babe was born a boy. He had
His father's eyes, his smile, his hair,
And, oh, my soul was brimming glad,
It seemed his father's self was there!
But now came one who bade me still
In holy Heaven put my trust.
They'd laid my love beneath the hill,
And sealed his eyes with timeless dust.
Against my breast the babe I drew,
With strength from him to stay my fears.
I fought my fight the long days through;
He laughed and dabbled in my tears.
From my poor heart, at which it fed
With tiger teeth, I thrust despair,
And faced a world with shadow spread
And only echoes in the air.
The winter waned. One eve I went,
Led by a kindly hand to see
In moving scenes the churches rent,
The tumbled hill, the blasted lee.
Of soldiers resting by the road,
Who smoked and drowsed, a muddy rout,
One sprang alert, and forward strode,
With eager eyes to seek us out.
His fingers held a rose. He threw
The flower, and waved his cap. In me
A frenzy of assurance grew,
For, O dear God, 'twas he! 'twas he!
I called aloud. Aloft my child
I held, and nearer yet he came;
And when he understood and smiled,
My baby lisped his father's name.
They say I fell like something dead,
But when I woke to morning's glow
My boy sat by me on the bed,
And in his hand a rose of snow!
Victor Hugo.
by Henry Austin Dobson

He set the trumpet to his lips, and lo!
The clash of waves, the roar of winds that blow,
The strife and stress of Nature's warring things,
Rose like a storm-cloud, upon angry wings.
He set the reed-pipe to his lips, and lo!
The wreck of landscape took a rosy glow,
And Life, and Love, and gladness that Love brings
Laughed in the music, like a child that sings.
Master of each, Arch-Master! We that still
Wait in the verge and outskirt of the Hill
Look upward lonely--lonely to the height
Where thou has climbed, for ever, out of sight!
John And Jane
by Thomas Hardy

I
He sees the world as a boisterous place
Where all things bear a laughing face,
And humorous scenes go hourly on,
Does John.
II
They find the world a pleasant place
Where all is ecstasy and grace,
Where a light has risen that cannot wane,
Do John and Jane.
III
They see as a palace their cottage-place,
Containing a pearl of the human race,
A hero, maybe, hereafter styled,
Do John and Jane with a baby-child.
IV
They rate the world as a gruesome place,
Where fair looks fade to a skull's grimace, -
As a pilgrimage they would fain get done -
Do John and Jane with their worthless son.
Breitmann As An Uhlan. V. Breitmann in Bivouac
by Charles G. Leland

He sits in bivouacke,
By fire, peneat' de drees;
A pottle of champagner
Held shently on his knees;
His lange Uhlan lanze
Stuck py him in de sand;
Vhile a goot peas-poodin' sausage
Adorn his oder hand.
Und jungere Uhlanen
Sit round mit oben mout'
To hear der Breitmann's shdories
Of fitin in de Sout'
Und he gife dem moral lessons,
How pefore de battle pops:
'Take a liddle brayer to Himmel,
Und a goot long trink of schnapps.'
Denn his leutenant bemarket:
'How voonder shdrange it peen
Dat so very many wild pigs
Ish dis year in de Ardennes.
Ash I sout dere donner'r'wetter!
I sah dem coom heraus,
Shoost here und dere an Eber
Mit a hoondert tousand sows.
'Shoost dink of all dese she-picks
Vot flet to neutral land!'
Said Breitmann: 'Fery easy
Ish dis to oonderstand:
Dese schwein-picks mit de sauen
Vot you saw a-roonin rond,
Ish a crate medempsygosis
Of the Fr'ntsch' demi-monde.
'I hafe readet in de Bible
How soosh a coterie
Vas ge-toornet into swine-picks,
Und roon down indo de see;
Boot since de see aint handy,
Or de picks vere all too dumm,
Dey hafe coot across de porder
Und vly to Belgium.'
Now ash dey boorst oud laughin,
Und got more liquor out,
Dey hearden from de sendry
A shot und denn a shout.
Und Breitmann crasp his sabre
Quick ash de bullet hiss,
Und leapin out, demantet,
'Herr'r'r'r Gott! vat row ish dis?'
Und bold der Schwabian answert:
'Dis minute on de ground
Dere comed a Fr'ntschman greepin,
On all-fours a-prowlin round.
I ask him vat he vanted;
Werda! I gry; boot he
Say nodings to my shallenge,
Und only answer 'Oui.'
'So I shoot him like der teufels,
Und I rader dink our friend,
Dis sneakin Frank-tiroir,
Ish a-drawin to his end.'
So dey hoonted in de pushes,
Und in avery gorner dig,
Boot, mein Gott! how dey vas laughin,
Ven dey found a mordered pig.
Next week dey hear from Paris,
Und reat in de Gaulois
Of de most adrocious action
De vorlt vas efer saw.
How de Uhlan cannibalen,
Dis vile und awful prood,
Hafe killt a nople Fr'ntschman,
Und cut him oop for food.
'Ja shop him indo sausage,
Und coot him indo ham;
Und schwear dey'll serfe all oders
Exacdly so py tam!
Sons of France, awake to glory,
Let your anciend valor shine!
Und shweep dis Prussian vermin
Het und dails indo de Rhine!'
Dead Man's Run
by Madison Julius Cawein

He rode adown the autumn wood,
A man dark-eyed and brown;
A mountain girl before him stood
Clad in a homespun gown.
'To ride this road is death for you!
My father waits you there;
My father and my brother, too,
You know the oath they swear.'
He holds her by one berry-brown wrist,
And by one berry-brown hand;
And he hath laughed at her and kissed
Her cheek the sun hath tanned.
'The feud is to the death, sweetheart;
But forward will I ride.'
'And if you ride to death, sweetheart,
My place is at your side.'
Low hath he laughed again and kissed
And helped her with his hand;
And they have ridd'n into the mist
That belts the autumn land.
And they had passed by Devil's Den,
And come to Dead Man's Run,
When in the brush rose up two men,
Each with a levelled gun.
'Down! down! my sister!' cries the one;
She gives the reins a twirl
The other shouts, 'He shot my son!
And now he steals my girl!'
The rifles crack: she will not wail:
He will not cease to ride:
But, oh! her face is pale, is pale,
And the red blood stains her side.
'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!
The road is rough to ride!'
The road is rough by gulch and bluff,
And her hair blows wild and wide.
'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!
The bank is steep to ride!'
The bank is steep for a strong man's leap,
And her eyes are staring wide.
'Sit fast, sit fast by me, sweetheart!
The Run is swift to ride!'
The Run is swift with mountain drift,
And she sways from side to side.
Is it a wash of the yellow moss,
Or drift of the autumn's gold,
The mountain torrent foams across
For the dead pine's roots to hold?
Is it the bark of the sycamore,
Or peel of the white birch-tree,
The mountaineer on the other shore
Hath followed and still can see?
No mountain moss or leaves, dear heart!
No bark of birchen gray!
Young hair of gold and a face death-cold
The wild stream sweeps away.
Disabled
by Wilfred Edward Salter Owen

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn,
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.
About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light-blue trees
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,
--In the old times, before he threw away his knees.
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands,
All of them touch him like some queer disease.
There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year.
Now he is old; his back will never brace;
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry,
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race,
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.
One time he liked a bloodsmear down his leg,
After the matches carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join. He wonders why . . .
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts.
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg,
Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts,
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg;
Smiling they wrote his lie; aged nineteen years.
Germans he scarcely thought of; and no fears
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes;
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears;
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.
Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal.
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits
Thanked him; and then inquired about his soul.
Now, he will spend a few sick years in Institutes,
And do what things the rules consider wise,
And take whatever pity they may dole.
To-night he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole.
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?
The Tombstone-Maker
by Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

He primmed his loose red mouth, and leaned his head
Against a sorrowing angel's breast, and said:
"You'd think so much bereavement would have made
Unusual big demands upon my trade.
The War comes cruel hard on some poor folk - 
Unless the fighting stops I'll soon be broke."
He eyed the Cemetery across the road - 
"There's scores of bodies out abroad, this while,
That should be here by rights; they little know'd
How they'd get buried in such wretched style."
I told him, with a sympathetic grin,
That Germans boil dead soldiers down for fat;
And he was horrified. "What shameful sin!
O sir, that Christian men should come to that!"
The College Colonel
by Herman Melville

He rides at their head;
A crutch by his saddle just slants in view,
One slung arm is in splints, you see,
Yet he guides his strong steed--how coldly too.
He brings his regiment home--
Not as they filed two years before,
But a remnant half-tattered, and battered, and worn,
Like castaway sailors, who--stunned
By the surf's loud roar,
Their mates dragged back and seen no more--
Again and again breast the surge,
And at last crawl, spent, to shore.
A still rigidity and pale--
An Indian aloofness lones his brow;
He has lived a thousand years
Compressed in battle's pains and prayers,
Marches and watches slow.
There are welcoming shouts, and flags;
Old men off hat to the Boy,
Wreaths from gay balconies fall at his feet,
But to him--there comes alloy.
It is not that a leg is lost,
It is not that an arm is maimed,
It is not that the fever has racked--
Self he has long disclaimed.
But all through the Seven Days' Fight,
And deep in the Wilderness grim,
And in the field-hospital tent,
And Petersburg crater, and dim
Lean brooding in Libby, there came--
Ah heaven!--what truth to him.
Out of Nazareth
by James Whitcomb Riley

"He shall sleep unscathed of thieves
Who loves Allah and believes."
Thus heard one who shared the tent,
In the far-off Orient,
Of the Bedouin ben Ahrzz -
Nobler never loved the stars
Through the palm-leaves nigh the dim
Dawn his courser neighed to him!
He said: "Let the sands be swarmed
With such thieves as I, and thou
Shalt at morning rise unharmed,
Light as eyelash to the brow
Of thy camel amber-eyed,
Ever munching either side,
Striding still, with nestled knees,
Through the midnight's oases."
"Who can rob thee an thou hast
More than this that thou hast cast
At my feet - this dust of gold?
Simply this and that, all told!
Hast thou not a treasure of
Such a thing as men call love?"
"Can the dusky band I lead
Rob thee of thy daily need
Of a whiter soul, or steal
What thy lordly prayers reveal?
Who could be enriched of thee
By such hoard of poverty
As thy niggard hand pretends
To dole me - thy worst of friends?
Therefore shouldst thou pause to bless
One indeed who blesses thee:
Robbing thee, I dispossess
But myself. Pray thou for me!"
He shall sleep unscathed of thieves
Who loves Allah and believes.
Our Soldier Boy
by Alan L. Strang

Written as a tribute to my brother, W. M. Strang, with the Engineers.
He said, "I'm Daddy's soldier boy,"
When he was five years old;
And then went out and built snow forts,
Although the day was cold.
The snowballs were his hand grenades,
A stick his bayonette;
And with a home-made wooden gun
The foe he bravely met.
In five more years he joined the "scouts"
And hiked across the hills;
He learned to wear a khaki suit,
And do military drills.
And so the years passed swiftly on,
And now he is a man;
He's in the trenches over there,
Fighting for Uncle Sam.
I know he'll make the Huns regret
They started this big fight,
For he knows the cause he's fighting for
Is liberty and right.