DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Challenge.
by Walter R. Cassels

What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
My heart is true as steel,
Steady still in woe and weal,
Strong to bear, though quick to feel--
Take my hand!
What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
Only my own ease seek I,
I am deaf to Pity's cry,
If men hunger, let them die--
Traitor! stand!
What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
I've a kiss for maiden fair,
I've a blow for who may dare,
I've a song to banish care--
Take my hand!
What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
I'm your servant whilst you're great,
As you sink, my cares abate,
When you're poor you have my hate,--
Traitor! stand!
What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
If you trust me, I'll be true,
If you slight me, I'll slight you,
If you wrong me, you shall rue--
Take my hand!
What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
I can work with any tools--
Clothe myself by stripping fools--
Bend the knee whoever rules--
Traitor! stand!
What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
I've a heart that hates all wrong,
Aids the weak against the strong,
Loves the Truth, and seeks it long--
Take my hand!
What art thou--friend or foe?
Stand! stand!
I forgive no woman's sin,
Hunt her with self-righteous mien,
Never take her, mourning, in
From the desert of her sin--
Traitor! stand!
What art thou--friend or foe!
Stand! stand!
I've a heart that melts at sorrow,
I've a store the poor may borrow
I'm the same to-day, to-morrow--
Take my hand!
Perle Des Jardins.
by Madison Julius Cawein

What am I, and what is he
Who can cull and tear a heart,
As one might a rose for sport
In its royalty?
What am I, that he has made
All this love a bitter foam,
Blown about a life of loam
That must break and fade?
He who of my heart could make
Hollow crystal where his face
Like a passion had its place
Holy and then break!
Shatter with insensate jeers! - 
But these weary eyes are dry,
Tearless clear, and if I die
They shall know no tears.
Yet my heart weeps; - let it weep!
Let it weep in sullen pain,
And this anguish in my brain
Cry itself to sleep.
Ah! the afternoon is warm,
And yon fields are glad and fair;
Many happy creatures there
Thro' the woodland swarm.
All the summer land is still,
And the woodland stream is dark
Where the lily rocks its barque
Just below the mill.
If they found me icy there
'Mid the lilies and pale whorls
Of the cresses in my curls
Wet of raven hair - 
Fool and coward! are you such?
Would you have him thus to know
That you died for utter woe
And despair o'ermuch?
No! my face a marble bust!
As the Sphynx, impassioned, stern! - 
Passions hid, as in an urn,
Burnt to bitter dust!
And I'll write him as he wrote,
Making, with his worded scorn,
Tyrant, - crowned with stinging thorn, - 
His cold, cruel note.
"You'll forget," he says, "and I
Feel 'tis better for us twain:
It may give you some small pain,
But, 'twill soon be by.
"You are dark, and Maud is light;
I am dark; and it is said
Opposites are better wed; - 
So I think I'm right."
"You are dark and Maud is fair!"
I could laugh at this excuse
If this aching, mad abuse
Were not more than hair!
But I'll write him as a-glad
Some few happy words and light,
Touching on some past delight,
That last year we had.
Not one line of broken vows,
Sighs or hurtful tears unshed,
Faithless lips far better dead,
Nor a withered rose.
But a rose, this Perle to wear, - 
Perle des Jardins delicate
With faint fragrant life elate, - 
When he weds her there.
So; 'tis finished! It is well!
Go, thou rose! I have no tear,
Kiss, or word for thee to bear,
And no woe to tell.
Only be thus full of life,
Cold and calm, impassionate,
Filled with neither love nor hate,
When he calls her wife!
Fragment: The False Laurel And The True.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

'What art thou, Presumptuous, who profanest
The wreath to mighty poets only due,
Even whilst like a forgotten moon thou wanest?
Touch not those leaves which for the eternal few
Who wander o'er the Paradise of fame,
In sacred dedication ever grew:
One of the crowd thou art without a name.'
'Ah, friend, 'tis the false laurel that I wear;
Bright though it seem, it is not the same
As that which bound Milton's immortal hair;
Its dew is poison; and the hopes that quicken
Under its chilling shade, though seeming fair,
Are flowers which die almost before they sicken.'
Danny Deever
by Rudyard Kipling

"What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade.
"To turn you out, to turn you out", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade.
"I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch", the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,
The Regiment's in 'ollow square, they're hangin' him to-day;
They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,
An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
"What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What makes that front-rank man fall down?" said Files-on-Parade.
"A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun", the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,
They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;
An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound,
O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!
"'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine", said Files-on-Parade.
"'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times", said Files-on-Parade.
"'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone", the Colour-Sergeant said.
They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place,
For 'e shot a comrade sleepin', you must look 'im in the face;
Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the Regiment's disgrace,
While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
"What's that so black agin' the sun?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life", the Colour-Sergeant said.
"What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade.
"It's Danny's soul that's passin' now", the Colour-Sergeant said.
For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play,
The Regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away;
Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day,
After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.
What Am I, After All?
by Walt Whitman

What am I, after all, but a child, pleas'd with the sound of my own name? repeating it over and over;
I stand apart to hear, it never tires me.
To you, your name also;
Did you think there was nothing but two or three pronunciations in the sound of your name?
Snow Storm
by John Clare

What a night! The wind howls, hisses, and but stops
To howl more loud, while the snow volley keeps
Incessant batter at the window pane,
Making our comfort feel as sweet again;
And in the morning, when the tempest drops,
At every cottage door mountainous heaps
Of snow lie drifted, that all entrance stops
Untill the beesom and the shovel gain
The path, and leave a wall on either side.
The shepherd rambling valleys white and wide
With new sensations his old memory fills,
When hedges left at night, no more descried,
Are turned to one white sweep of curving hills,
And trees turned bushes half their bodies hide.
The boy that goes to fodder with surprise
Walks oer the gate he opened yesternight.
The hedges all have vanished from his eyes;
Een some tree tops the sheep could reach to bite.
The novel scene emboldens new delight,
And, though with cautious steps his sports begin,
He bolder shuffles the huge hills of snow,
Till down he drops and plunges to the chin,
And struggles much and oft escape to win--
Then turns and laughs but dare not further go;
For deep the grass and bushes lie below,
Where little birds that soon at eve went in
With heads tucked in their wings now pine for day
And little feel boys oer their heads can stray.
To J. Q.
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

What are the things that make life bright?
A star gleam in the night.
What hearts us for the coming fray?
The dawn tints of the day.
What helps to speed the weary mile?
A brother's friendly smile.
What turns o' gold the evening gray?
A flower beside the way.
The Atavist
by Robert William Service

What are you doing here, Tom Thorne, on the white top-knot o' the world,
Where the wind has the cut of a naked knife and the stars are rapier keen?
Hugging a smudgy willow fire, deep in a lynx robe curled,
You that's a lord's own son, Tom Thorne - what does your madness mean?
Go home, go home to your clubs, Tom Thorne! home to your evening dress!
Home to your place of power and pride, and the feast that waits for you!
Why do you linger all alone in the splendid emptiness,
Scouring the Land of the Little Sticks on the trail of the caribou?
Why did you fall off the Earth, Tom Thorne, out of our social ken?
What did your deep damnation prove? What was your dark despair?
Oh with the width of a world between, and years to the count of ten,
If they cut out your heart to-night, Tom Thorne, HER name would be graven there!
And you fled afar for the thing called Peace, and you thought you would find it here,
In the purple tundras vastly spread, and the mountains whitely piled;
It's a weary quest and a dreary quest, but I think that the end is near;
For they say that the Lord has hidden it in the secret heart of the Wild.
And you know that heart as few men know, and your eyes are fey and deep,
With a "something lost" come welling back from the raw, red dawn of life:
With woe and pain have you greatly lain, till out of abysmal sleep
The soul of the Stone Age leaps in you, alert for the ancient strife.
And if you came to our feast again, with its pomp and glee and glow,
I think you would sit stone-still, Tom Thorne, and see in a daze of dream,
A mad sun goading to frenzied flame the glittering gems of the snow,
And a monster musk-ox bulking black against the blood-red gleam.
I think you would see berg-battling shores, and stammer and halt and stare,
With a sudden sense of the frozen void, serene and vast and still;
And the aching gleam and the hush of dream, and the track of a great white bear,
And the primal lust that surged in you as you sprang to make your kill.
I think you would hear the bull-moose call, and the glutted river roar;
And spy the hosts of the caribou shadow the shining plain;
And feel the pulse of the Silences, and stand elate once more
On the verge of the yawning vastitudes that call to you in vain.
For I think you are one with the stars and the sun, and the wind and the wave and the dew;
And the peaks untrod that yearn to God, and the valleys undefiled;
Men soar with wings, and they bridle kings, but what is it all to you,
Wise in the ways of the wilderness, and strong with the strength of the Wild?
You have spent your life, you have waged your strife
where never we play a part;
You have held the throne of the Great Unknown, you have ruled a kingdom vast:
. . . . .
BUT TO-NIGHT THERE'S A STRANGE, NEW TRAIL FOR YOU, AND YOU GO, O WEARY HEART!
TO THE PEACE AND REST OF THE GREAT UNGUESSED . . .
AT LAST, TOM THORNE, AT LAST.
The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - VIII - What Aspect Bore The Man Who Roved Or Fled
by William Wordsworth

What aspect bore the Man who roved or fled,
First of his tribe, to this dark dell who first
In this pellucid Current slaked his thirst?
What hopes came with him? what designs were spread
Along his path? His unprotected bed
What dreams encompassed? Was the intruder nursed
In hideous usages, and rites accursed,
That thinned the living and disturbed the dead?
No voice replies; both air and earth are mute;
And Thou, blue Streamlet, murmuring yield'st no more
Than a soft record, that, whatever fruit
Of ignorance thou might'st witness heretofore,
Thy function was to heal and to restore,
To soothe and cleanse, not madden and pollute!
The Suicide.
by Alfred Castner King

What anguish rankled 'neath that silent breast?
What spectral figures mocked those staring eyes,
Luring them on to Stygian mysteries?
What overpowering sense of grief distressed?
What desperation nerved that rigid hand
To pull the trigger with such deadly aim?
What deep remorse, or terror, overcame
The dread inherent, of death's shadowy strand?
Perhaps the hand of unrelenting fate
Fell with such tragic pressure, that the mind
In frenzy, uncontrollable and blind,
Sought but the darkness, black and desolate.
Perhaps 'twas some misfortune's stunning blight,
Perhaps unmerited, though deep disgrace,
Or vision of a wronged accusing face
Pictured indelibly before the sight.
Perhaps the gnawing of some secret sin,
Some aberration fraught with morbid gloom,
A buried hope which ever burst its tomb,
Despondency, disaster, or chagrin.
That heart which throbbed in pain and discontent
Is silent as the grave for which it yearned;
That brain, which once with proud ambition burned,
Now oozes through the bullet's ghastly rent.
Those eyes, transfixed with such a gruesome stare,
Once beamed with laughter, innocent and bright;
The morning gave no presage of the night;
A smile may be the prelude of despair.
Whate'er his secret, it remains untold,
For why to human anguish add one groan?
Is grief the deeper grief because unknown?
So let the grave his form and burden hold.
Ye who have felt no crushing weight of care,
From blame profuse, in charity refrain;
Some depths of sorrow overwhelm the brain,
Some loads too great for human strength to bear.
Charity
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I.
What am I doing, you say to me, 'wasting the sweet summer hours'?
Haven't you eyes? I am dressing the grave of a woman with flowers.
II.
For a woman ruin'd the world, as God's own scriptures tell,
And a man ruin'd mine, but a woman, God bless her, kept me from Hell.
III.
Love me? O yes, no doubt'how long'till you threw me aside!
Dresses and laces and jewels and never a ring for the bride.
IV.
All very well just now to be calling me darling and sweet,
And after a while would it matter so much if I came on the street?
V.
You when I met you first'when he brought you!'I turn'd away
And the hard blue eyes have it still, that stare of a beast of prey.
VI.
You were his friend'you'you'when he promised to make me his bride,
And you knew that he meant to betray me'you knew'you knew that he lied.
VII.
He married an heiress, an orphan with half a shire of estate,'
I sent him a desolate wail and a curse, when I learn'd my fate.
VIII.
For I used to play with the knife, creep down to the river-shore,
Moan to myself 'one plunge-then quiet for evermore.'
IX.
Would the man have a touch of remorse when he heard what an end was mine?
Or brag to his fellow rakes of his conquest over their wine?
X.
Money'my hire'his money'I sent him back what he gave,'
Will you move a little that way? your shadow falls on the grave.
XI.
Two trains clash'd: then and there he was crush'd in a moment and died,
But the new-wedded wife was unharm'd, tho' sitting close at his side.
XII.
She found my letter upon him, my wail of reproach and scorn;
I had cursed the woman he married, and him, and the day I was born.
XIII.
They put him aside for ever, and after a week'no more'
A stranger as welcome as Satan'a widow came to my door:
XIV.
So I turn'd my face to the wall, I was mad, I was raving-wild,
I was close on that hour of dishonour, the birth of a baseborn child.
XV.
O you that can flatter your victims, and juggle, and lie and cajole,
Man, can you even guess at the love of a soul for a soul?
XVI.
I had cursed her as woman and wife, and in wife and woman I found
The tenderest Christ-like creature that ever stept on the ground.
XVII.
She watch'd me, she nursed me, she fed me, she sat day and night by my bed,
Till the joyless birthday came of a boy born happily dead.
XVIII.
And her name? what was it? I ask'd her. She said with a sudden glow
On her patient face ' My dear, I will tell you before I go.'
XIX.
And I when I learnt it at last, I shriek'd, I sprang from my seat,
I wept, and I kiss'd her hands, I flung myself down at her feet,
XX.
And we pray'd together for him, for him who had given her the name.
She has left me enough to live on. I need no wages of shame.
XXI.
She died of a fever caught when a nurse in a hospital ward.
She is high in the Heaven of Heavens, she is face to face with her Lord,
XXII.
And He sees not her like anywhere in this pitiless world of ours!
I have told you my tale. Get you gone. I am dressing her grave with flowers.
Parnassus
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

I.
What be those crown'd forms high over the sacred fountain?
Bards, that the mighty Muses have raised to the heights of the mountain,
And over the flight of the Ages! O Goddesses, help me up thither!
Lightning may shrivel the laurel of C'sar, but mine would not wither.
Steep is the mountain, but you, you will help me to overcome it,
And stand with my head in the zenith, and roll my voice from the summit,
Sounding for ever and ever thro' Earth and her listening nations,
And mixt with the great sphere-music of stars and of constellations.
II.
What be those two shapes high over the sacred fountain,
Taller than all the Muses, and huger than all the mountain?
On those two known peaks they stand ever spreading and heightening;
Poet, that evergreen laurel is blasted by more than lightning!
Look, in their deep double shadow the crown'd ones all disappearing!
Sing like a bird and be happy, nor hope for a deathless hearing!
'Sounding for ever and ever?' pass on! the sight confuses'
These are Astronomy and Geology, terrible Muses!
III.
If the lips were touch'd with fire from off a pure Pierian altar,
Tho' their music here be mortal need the singer greatly care?
Other songs for other worlds! the fire within him would not falter;
Let the golden Iliad vanish, Homer here is Homer there.
Under The Sheet
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

What a terrible night!    Does the Night, I wonder - 
The Night, with her black veil down to her feet
Like an ordained nun, know what lies under
That awful, motionless, snow-white sheet?
The winds seem crazed, and, wildly howling,
Over the sad earth blindly go.
Do they and the dark clouds over them scowling,
Do they dream or know?
Why, here in the room, not a week or over - 
Tho' it must be a week, not more than one - 
(I cannot recken of late or discover
When one day is ended or one begun),
But here in this room we were laughing lightly,
And glad was the measure our two hearts beat;
And the royal face that was smiling so brightly
Lies under that sheet.
I know not why - it is strange and fearful,
But I am afraid of her, lying there;
She who was always so gay and cheerful,
Lying so still with that stony stare:
She who was so like some grand sultana,
Fond of colour and glow and heat,
To lie there clothed in that awful manner
In a stark white sheet.
She who was made out of summer blisses,
Tropical, beautiful, gracious, fair,
To lie and stare at my fondest kisses - 
God! no wonder it whitens my hair
Shriek, O wind! for the world is lonely;
Trail cloud-veil to the nun Night's feet!
For all that I prize in life is only
A shape and a sheet.
Work
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

What are we set on earth for? Say, to toil;
Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines
For all the heat o' the day, till it declines,
And Death's mild curfew shall from work assoil.
God did anoint thee with his odorous oil,
To wrestle, not to reign; and He assigns
All thy tears over, like pure crystallines,
For younger fellow-workers of the soil
To wear for amulets. So others shall
Take patience, labor, to their heart and hand
From thy hand and thy heart and thy brave cheer,
And God's grace fructify through thee to
The least flower with a brimming cup may stand,
And share its dew-drop with another near.
The Kaiser's Favorite Poems
by Thomas O'Hagan

What are the Kaiser's favorite poems?
Well, now, you tax me hard:
I know the Kaiser's favorite drink
But do not know his bard;
I'm sure it is not Schiller
Who reigns in German homes.
Nor yet Olympian Goethe,
Who writes the Kaiser's poems.
Perhaps that Heinrich Heine
Has touched the Kaiser's soul;
Or Arndt with his trumpet call
Like a new conscription roll;
Or, Walther von der Vogelweide
With his nest in mythic domes,
Is the author and creator
Of the Kaiser's favorite poems.
If I saw the Kaiser's library
I'd know well what he reads -
The color of his fancy
And the prompter of his deeds:
I'd learn the depth and wisdom
Of his theories and his gnomes,
If I got but just a glance or two
At the Kaiser's favorite poems.
Then let us go to Essen,
Where the Kaiser's books are bound;
They are full of "steel" engravings -
All "best sellers" there are found;
For the Prussian soul and spirit
Speaks in rhythm thro' those tomes,
And these without a question,
Are the Kaiser's favorite poems.
For Rt. Hon. David Lloyd-George.
Ecclesiastical Sonnets - Part II. - XV - Archbishop Chichely To Henry V
by William Wordsworth

"What beast in wilderness or cultured field
"The lively beauty of the leopard shows?
"What flower in meadow-ground or garden grows
"That to the towering lily doth not yield?
"Let both meet only on thy royal shield!
"Go forth, great King! claim what thy birth bestows;
"Conquer the Gallic lily which thy foes
"Dare to usurp; thou hast a sword to wield,
"And Heaven will crown the right." The mitred Sire
Thus spake and lo! a Fleet, for Gaul addrest,
Ploughs her bold course across the wondering seas;
For, sooth to say, ambition, in the breast
Of youthful heroes, is no sullen fire,
But one that leaps to meet the fanning breeze.
To Oenone.
by Robert Herrick

What conscience, say, is it in thee,
When I a heart had one,
To take away that heart from me,
And to retain thy own?
For shame or pity now incline
To play a loving part;
Either to send me kindly thine,
Or give me back my heart.
Covet not both; but if thou dost
Resolve to part with neither,
Why! yet to show that thou art just,
Take me and mine together.
Translation
by Philip Sidney (Sir)

From "La Diana de Monte-Mayor," in Spanish:    where Sireno, a shepherd, whose mistress Diana had utterly forsaken him, pulling out a little of her hair, wrapped about with green silk, to the hair he thus bewailed himself.
What changes here, O hair,
I see, since I saw you!
How ill fits you this green to wear,
For hope, the colour due!
Indeed, I well did hope,
Though hope were mixed with fear,
No other shepherd should have scope
Once to approach this hair.
Ah hair! how many days
My Dian made me show,
With thousand pretty childish plays,
If I ware you or no:
Alas, how oft with tears, -
O tears of guileful breast! -
She seemed full of jealous fears,
Whereat I did but jest.
Tell me, O hair of gold,
If I then faulty be,
That trust those killing eyes I would,
Since they did warrant me?
Have you not seen her mood,
What streams of tears she spent,
'Till that I sware my faith so stood,
As her words had it bent?
Who hath such beauty seen
In one that changeth so?
Or where one's love so constant been,
Who ever saw such woe?
Ah, hair! are you not grieved
To come from whence you be,
Seeing how once you saw I lived,
To see me as you see?
On sandy bank of late,
I saw this woman sit;
Where, "Sooner die than change my state,"
She with her finger writ:
Thus my belief was staid,
Behold Love's mighty hand
On things were by a woman said,
And written in the sand.
The same Sireno in "Monte-Mayor," holding his mistress's glass before her, and looking upon her while she viewed herself, thus sang:-
Of this high grace, with bliss conjoined,
No farther debt on me is laid,
Since that in self-same metal coined,
Sweet lady, you remain well paid;
For if my place give me great pleasure,
Having before my nature's treasure,
In face and eyes unmatched being,
You have the same in my hands, seeing
What in your face mine eyes do measure.
Nor think the match unevenly made,
That of those beams in you do tarry,
The glass to you but gives a shade,
To me mine eyes the true shape carry;
For such a thought most highly prized,
Which ever hath Love's yoke despised,
Better than one captived perceiveth,
Though he the lively form receiveth,
The other sees it but disguised.