DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Ode To Don Miguel.
by Thomas Moore

Et tu, Brute!
1828.[1]
What! Miguel, not patriotic! oh, fy!
After so much good teaching 'tis quite a take-in, Sir;
First schooled as you were under Metternich's eye,
And then (as young misses say) "finisht" at Windsor![2]
I ne'er in my life knew a case that was harder;--
Such feasts as you had when you made us a call!
Three courses each day from his Majesty's larder,--
And now to turn absolute Don after all!!
Some authors, like Bayes, to the style and the matter
Of each thing they write suit the way that they dine,
Roast sirloin for Epic, broiled devils for Satire,
And hotchpotch and trifle for rhymes such as mine.
That Rulers should feed the same way, I've no doubt;--
Great Despots on bouilli served up ' la Russe,[3]
Your small German Princes on frogs and sour crout,
And your Viceroy of Hanover always on goose.
Some Dons too have fancied (tho' this may be fable)
A dish rather dear, if in cooking they blunder it;--
Not content with the common hot meat on a table,
They're partial (eh, Mig?) to a dish of cold under it![4]
No wonder a Don of such appetites found
Even Windsor's collations plebeianly plain;
Where the dishes most high that my Lady sends round
Are here Maintenon cutlets and soup ' la Reine.
Alas! that a youth with such charming beginnings,
Should sink all at once to so sad a conclusion,
And what is still worse, throw the losings and winnings
Of worthies on 'Change into so much confusion!
The Bulls, in hysterics--the Bears just as bad--
The few men who have, and the many who've not tick,
All shockt to find out that that promising lad,
Prince Metternich's pupil, is--not patriotic!
Taste
by Mark Akenside

What, then, is taste but those internal powers,
Active and strong, and feeling alive
To each fine impulse? a discerning sense
Of decent and sublime, with quick disgust
From things deformed, or disarranged and gross
In species. This nor gems nor stores of gold,
Nor purple state nor culture can bestow;
But God alone, when first His active hand
Imprints the secret bias of the soul.
Distrust.
by Robert Herrick

Whatever men for loyalty pretend,
'Tis wisdom's part to doubt a faithful friend.
St Peter's Denial
by Charles Baudelaire

What, then, has God to say of cursing heresies,
Which rise up like a flood at precious angels' feet?
A self-indulgent tyrant, stuffed with wine and meat,
He sleeps to soothing sounds of monstrous blasphemies.
The sobs of martyred saints and groans of tortured men
No doubt provide the Lord with rapturous symphonies.
And yet the heavenly hosts are scarcely even pleased
In spite of all the blood men dedicate to them.
Jesus, do you recall the grove of olive trees
Where on your knees, in your simplicity, you prayed
To Him who sat and heard the noise the nailing made
In your live flesh, as villains did their awful deed,
When you saw, spitting on your pure divinity,
Scum from the kitchens, outcasts, guardsmen in disgrace,
And felt the crown of thorns around your gentle face
Piercing your temples, home of our Humanity,
When, like a target, you were raised above the crowd,
When the appalling wrench of broken body's weight
Stretched out your spreading arms, and as your blood and sweat
Streamed down your body, and across your pallid brow,
Did you remember all the days of brilliant calm
You went forth to fulfil the promise made by God,
And on a gentle ass triumphantly you trod
The streets all strewn with blooms and branches of the palms,
When with your heart so full of hope and far from fear,
You lashed with all your might that money-changing lot,
And were at last the master? 0, and then did not
Chagrin strike through your side more keenly than the spear?
Believe it, as for me, I'll go out satisfied
From this world where the deed and dream do not accord;
Would I might wield the sword, and perish by the sword!
Peter rejected Jesus ... he was justified!
A Song Of The Road
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Whatever the path may be, my dear,
Let us follow it far away from here,
Let us follow it back to Yester-Year,
Whatever the path may be:
Again let us dream where the land lies sunny,
And live, like the bees, on our hearts' old honey,
Away from the world that slaves for money
Come, journey the way with me.
II.
However the road may roam, my dear,
Through sun or rain, through green or sere,
Let us follow it back with hearts of cheer,
However the road may roam:
Oh, while we walk it here together,
What care we for wind and weather,
When there on the hills we'll smell the heather,
And see the lights of home!
III.
Whatever the path may seem, my sweet,
Let us take it now with willing feet,
And time our steps to our hearts' glad beat,
Whatever the path may seem:
Though the road be rough that we must follow,
What care we for hill or hollow,
While here in our hearts, as high as a swallow,
We bear the same loved dream!
IV.
However the road may roam, my sweet,
Let it lead us far from mart and street,
Out where the hills and the heavens meet,
However the road may roam:
So, hand in hand, let us go together,
And care no more for the wind and weather,
And reach at last those hills of heather,
Where gleam the lights of home.
Never Mind
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Whatever your work and whatever its worth,
No matter how strong or clever,
Some one will sneer if you pause to hear,
And scoff at your best endeavour.
For the target art has a broad expanse,
And wherever you chance to hit it,
Though close be your aim to the bull's-eye fame,
There are those who will never admit it.
Though the house applauds while the artist plays,
And a smiling world adores him,
Somebody is there with an ennuied air
To say that the acting bores him.
For the tower of art has a lofty spire,
With many a stair and landing,
And those who climb seem small oft-time
To one at the bottom standing.
So work along in your chosen niche
With a steady purpose to nerve you;
Let nothing men say who pass your way
Relax your courage or swerve you.
The idle will flock by the Temple of Art
For just the pleasure of gazing;
But climb to the top and do not stop,
Though they may not all be praising.
They Shall Not Win
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Whatever the strength of our foes is now,
Whatever it may have been,
This is our slogan, and this our vow - 
They shall not win, they shall not win.
Though out of the darkness they call the aid
Of the evil forces of Sin,
We utter our slogan unafraid - 
They shall not win, they shall not win.
We know we are right, and know they are wrong,
So to God above and within - 
We make our vow and we sing our song
They shall not win, they shall not win.
It rises over the shriek of shell,
And over the cannons' din:
Our slogan shall scatter the hosts of Hell - 
They shall not win, they shall not win.
The Night-Washers.
by Bliss Carman (William)

Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!
We are the brothers of ghouls, and who
In the name of the Crooked Saints are you?
We are the washers of shrouds wherein
The lovers of beauty who sainted sin
Sleep till the Judgment Day begin.
When the moon is drifting overhead,
We wash the linen of the dead,
Stained with yellow and stiff with red.
Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!
We are the foul night-washers, and who,
By the Seven Lovely sins are you?
Here we sit by the river reeds,
Rinsing the linen that reeks and bleeds,
And craving the help our labor needs.
Come, Sir Fop, fall to, fall to!
Show us for once what you can do!
One day there'll be washing enough for you.
Wade in, wade in, where the river runs
Clear in the moonlight over the stones!
It'll wash the ache from your scrofulous bones.
Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!
We are the gossips of fame, and who
By the Sinners' Litany are you?
Wade in, wade in! The water is cold,
The stains are deep, and the linen is old;
But surely the sons of the town are bold!
Work for us here till the break of day
At washing the stains of the dead away,
And you shall be merry, come what may!
From now till your ninetieth year begins,
You shall sin the Seven Lovely sins,
While wearing the virtue a cardinal wins.
Refuse, and your arms shall be broken and wried,
To dangle like fenders over the side
Of an empty ship on the harbor tide!
They shall gather a waist in their grip no more,
As you wander the wide world over and o'er,
With the curs at your heels from door to door.
With only a stranger to cover your face,
You shall die in the streets of an outcast race,
And your linen be washed in the market-place!
Whe-ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh, ooh!
We are the Scavenger Saints, but who
In the name of the Shadowy Kin are you?
The Flatting Mill.
by William Cowper

An Illustration.
When a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold
Is sent to be flatted or wrought into length,
It is pass'd between cylinders often, and roll'd
In an engine of utmost mechanical strength.
Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears
Like a loose heap of ribbon, a glittering show,
Like music it tinkles and rings in your ears,
And, warm'd by the pressure, is all in a glow.
This process achieved, it is doom'd to sustain
The thump after thump of a gold-beater's mallet,
And at last is of service in sickness or pain
To cover a pill for a delicate palate.
Alas for the poet! who dares undertake
To urge reformation of national ill'
His head and his heart are both likely to ache
With the double employment of mallet and mill.
If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight,
Smooth, ductile, and even his fancy must flow,
Must tinkle and glitter, like gold to the sight,
And catch in its progress a sensible glow.
After all he must beat it as thin and as fine
As the leaf that enfolds what an invalid swallows;
For truth is unwelcome, however divine,
And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows.
Anger.
by H. P. Nichols

"When a child is cross and angry,
Never must her voice be heard;
Only to herself most softly
May she say this simple word,
"Lead us not into temptation;"
That will angry thoughts remove,
Make her calm and still and gentle,
With a spirit full of love.
Prayer
by Ivan Sergeyevich Turgenev

Whatever a man pray for, he prays for a miracle. Every prayer reduces to this: 'Great God, grant that twice two be not four.'
Only such a prayer is a real prayer from person to person. To pray to the Cosmic Spirit, to the Higher Being, to the Kantian, Hegelian, quintessential, formless God is impossible and unthinkable.
But can even a personal, living, imaged God make twice two not be four?
Every believer is bound to answer, he can, and is bound to persuade himself of it.
But if reason sets him revolting against this senselessness?
Then Shakespeare comes to his aid: 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,' etc.
And if they set about confuting him in the name of truth, he has but to repeat the famous question, 'What is truth?' And so, let us drink and be merry, and say our prayers.
July 1881.
Divination By A Daffodil
by Robert Herrick

When a daffodil I see,
Hanging down his head towards me,
Guess I may what I must be:
First, I shall decline my head;
Secondly, I shall be dead;
Lastly, safely buried.
It All Will Come Out Right
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Whatever is a cruel wrong,
Whatever is unjust,
The honest years that speed along
Will trample in the dust.
In restless youth I railed at fate
With all my puny might,
But now I know if I but wait
It all will come out right.
Though Vice may don the judge's gown
And play the censor's part,
And Fact be cowed by Falsehood's frown
And Nature ruled by art;
Though Labour toils through blinding tears
And idle Wealth is might,
I know the honest, earnest years
Will bring it all out right.
Though poor and loveless creeds may pass
For pure religion's gold;
Though ignorance may rule the mass
While truth meets glances cold,
I know a law complete, sublime,
Controls us with its might,
And in God's own appointed time
It all will come out right.
Epitaph On Sir Samuel Romilly
by Thomas Oldham

What, what can knowledge, virtue, fame, avail?
Crown they with happiness our mortal state?
Ah! no: what dire, unthought-of woes assail!
O wretched Man! thou art the slave of fate.
Lo! Romilly, in pangs, expiring lies!
His frantic hand O horror! doom'd to bleed?
His wakening Conscience opes her frighted eyes
'O God!' she groans, 'I disavow the deed.'
His guardian Angel sheds a pitying tear;
Then, fearless of the heavenly Judge's ire,
He leads his Spirit, blushing to appear,
Into the holy presence of her Sire.
Passing The Buck
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Whatever the task that comes your way,
Just take it as part of your luck.
Look it right square in the eyes, and say,
'This is MY task, I'll do it to-day':
Don't pass the buck.
Oh! whether you cook, or whether you fight,
Or whether you trundle a truck,
Just tackle your job and do it right:
Don't pass the buck.
The wheels of the earth have gone, alack!
Deep into war's mire and muck.
If you want to put it again on its track,
Don't shift your load on another man's back:
Don't pass the buck.
A Visitor In The Camp. To Mary Robinson. {27}
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

"What, are you lost, my pretty little lady?
This is no place for such sweet things as you.
Our bodies, rank with sweat, will make you sicken,
And, you'll observe, our lives are rank lives too."
"Oh no, I am not lost! Oh no, I've come here
(And I have brought my lute, see, in my hand),
To see you, and to sing of all you suffer
To the great world, and make it understand!"
"Well, say! If one of those who'd robbed you thousands,
Dropped you a sixpence in the gutter where
You lay and rotted, would you call her angel,
For all her charming smile and dainty air?"
"Oh no, I come not thus! Oh no, I've come here
With heart indignant, pity like a flame,
To try and help you!" - "Pretty little lady,
It will be best you go back whence you came."
"'Enthusiasms' we have such little time for!
In our rude camp we drill the whole day long.
When we return from out the serried battle,
Come, and we'll listen to your pretty song!"
Cocotte
by Robert William Service

When a girl's sixteen, and as poor as she's pretty,
And she hasn't a friend and she hasn't a home,
Heigh-ho! She's as safe in Paris city
As a lamb night-strayed where the wild wolves roam;
And that was I; oh, it's seven years now
(Some water's run down the Seine since then),
And I've almost forgotten the pangs and the tears now,
And I've almost taken the measure of men.
Oh, I found me a lover who loved me only,
Artist and poet, and almost a boy.
And my heart was bruised, and my life was lonely,
And him I adored with a wonderful joy.
If he'd come to me with his pockets empty,
How we'd have laughed in a garret gay!
But he was rich, and in radiant plenty
We lived in a villa at Viroflay.
Then came the War, and of bliss bereft me;
Then came the call, and he went away;
All that he had in the world he left me,
With the rose-wreathed villa at Viroflay.
Then came the news and the tragic story:
My hero, my splendid lover was dead,
Sword in hand on the field of glory,
And he died with my name on his lips, they said.
So here am I in my widow's mourning,
The weeds I've really no right to wear;
And women fix me with eyes of scorning,
Call me "cocotte", but I do not care.
And men look at me with eyes that borrow
The brightness of love, but I turn away;
Alone, say I, I will live with Sorrow,
In my little villa at Viroflay.
And lo! I'm living alone with 'Pity',
And they say that pity from love's not far;
Let me tell you all: last week in the city
I took the metro at Saint Lazare;
And the carriage was crowded to overflowing,
And when there entered at Chateaudun
Two wounded 'poilus' with medals showing,
I eagerly gave my seat to one.
You should have seen them: they'd slipped death's clutches,
But sadder a sight you will rarely find;
One had a leg off and walked on crutches,
The other, a bit of a boy, was blind.
And they both sat down, and the lad was trying
To grope his way as a blind man tries;
And half of the women around were crying,
And some of the men had tears in their eyes.
How he stirred me, this blind boy, clinging
Just like a child to his crippled chum.
But I did not cry. Oh no; a singing
Came to my heart for a year so dumb,
Then I knew that at three-and-twenty
There is wonderful work to be done,
Comfort and kindness and joy in plenty,
Peace and light and love to be won.
Oh, thought I, could mine eyes be given
To one who will live in the dark alway!
To love and to serve - 'twould make life Heaven
Here in my villa at Viroflay.
So I left my 'poilus': and now you wonder
Why to-day I am so elate. . . .
Look! In the glory of sunshine yonder
They're bringing my blind boy in at the gate.
A Time To Talk
by Robert Lee Frost

When a friend calls to me from the road
And slows his horse to a meaning walk,
I don't stand still and look around
On all the hills I haven't hoed,
And shout from where I am, 'What is it?'
No, not as there is a time talk.
I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,
Blade-end up and five feet tall,
And plod: I go up to the stone wall
For a friendly visit.
To Dr. Sheridan.
by Jonathan Swift

Whate'er your predecessors taught us,
I have a great esteem for Plautus;
And think your boys may gather there-hence
More wit and humour than from Terence;
But as to comic Aristophanes,
The rogue too vicious and too profane is.
I went in vain to look for Eupolis
Down in the Strand,[1] just where the New Pole[2] is;
For I can tell you one thing, that I can,
You will not find it in the Vatican.
He and Cratinus used, as Horace says,
To take his greatest grandees for asses.
Poets, in those days, used to venture high;
But these are lost full many a century.
Thus you may see, dear friend, ex pede hence,
My judgment of the old comedians.
Proceed to tragics: first Euripides
(An author where I sometimes dip a-days)
Is rightly censured by the Stagirite,
Who says, his numbers do not fadge aright.
A friend of mine that author despises
So much he swears the very best piece is,
For aught he knows, as bad as Thespis's;
And that a woman in these tragedies,
Commonly speaking, but a sad jade is.
At least I'm well assured, that no folk lays
The weight on him they do on Sophocles.
But, above all, I prefer Eschylus,
Whose moving touches, when they please, kill us.
And now I find my Muse but ill able,
To hold out longer in trissyllable.
I chose those rhymes out for their difficulty;
Will you return as hard ones if I call t'ye?
Love Dislikes Nothing
by Robert Herrick

Whatsoever thing I see,
Rich or poor although it be,
'Tis a mistress unto me.
Be my girl or fair or brown,
Does she smile, or does she frown;
Still I write a sweet-heart down.
Be she rough, or smooth of skin;
When I touch, I then begin
For to let affection in.
Be she bald, or does she wear
Locks incurl'd of other hair;
I shall find enchantment there.
Be she whole, or be she rent,
So my fancy be content,
She's to me most excellent.
Be she fat, or be she lean;
Be she sluttish, be she clean;
I'm a man for every scene.
A Hawporth.
by John Hartley

Whear is thi Daddy, doy? Whear is thi mam?
What are ta cryin for, poor little lamb?
Dry up thi peepies, pet, wipe thi wet face;
Tears o' thy little cheeks seem aght o' place.
What do they call thi, lad? Tell me thi name;
Have they been ooinion thi? Why, its a shame.
Here, tak this hawpny, an buy thi some spice,
Rocksticks or humbugs or summat 'at's nice.
Then run of hooam agean, fast as tha can;
Thear, - tha'rt all reight agean; run like a man.
He wiped up his tears wi' his little white brat,
An he tried to say summat, aw couldn't tell what;
But his little face breeten'd wi' pleasure all throo: - 
A'a! - its cappin, sometimes, what a hawpny can do.
Blind
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Whatever a man may think or feel
He can tell to the world and it hears aright;
But it bids the woman conceal, conceal,
And woe to the thoughts that at last ignite.
She may serve up gossip or dwell on fashion,
Or play the critic with speech unkind,
But alas for the woman who speaks with passion!
For the world is blind -for the world is blind.
It is woman who sits with her starved desire,
And drinks to sorrow in cups of tears;
She reads by the light of her soul on fire
The secrets of love through lonely years:
But out of all she has felt or heard
Or read by the glow of her soul's white flame,
If she dare but utter aloud one word -
How the world cries shame! -how the world cries shame!
It cannot distinguish between the glow
Of a gleaming star, in the sky of gold,
Or a spent cigar in the dust below -
'Twixt unclad Eve or a wanton bold;
And ever if woman speaks what she feels
(And feels consistent with God's great plan)
It has cast her under its juggernaut wheels,
Since the world began -since the world began.
All is well
by Arthur Hugh Clough

Whate'er you dream with doubt possest,
Keep, keep it snug within your breast,
And lay you down and take your rest;
Forget in sleep the doubt and pain,
And when you wake, to work again.
The wind it blows, the vessel goes,
And where and whither, no one knows.
'Twill all be well: no need of care;
Though how it will, and when, and where,
We cannot see, and can't declare.
In spite of dreams, in spite of thought,
'Tis not in vain, and not for nought,
The wind it blows, the ship it goes,
Though where and whither, no one knows.
The Dying Chauffeur
by Rudyard Kipling

Wheel me gently to the garage, since my car and I must part, 
No more for me the record and the run.
That cursed left-hand cylinder the doctors call my heart
Is pinking past redemption, I am done! 
They'll never strike a mixture that'll help me pull my load.
My gears are stripped, I cannot set my brakes.
I am entered for the finals down the timeless untimed Road
To the Maker of the makers of all makes!
Fragment: 'When A Lover Clasps His Fairest'.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
When a lover clasps his fairest,
Then be our dread sport the rarest.
Their caresses were like the chaff
In the tempest, and be our laugh
His despair - her epitaph!
2.
When a mother clasps her child,
Watch till dusty Death has piled
His cold ashes on the clay;
She has loved it many a day -
She remains, - it fades away.
The Pope And The Net
by Robert Browning

What, he on whom our voices unanimously ran,
Made Pope at our last Conclave? Full low his life began:
His father earned the daily bread as just a fisherman.
So much the more his boy minds book, gives proof of mother-wit,
Becomes first Deacon, and then Priest, then Bishop: see him sit
No less than Cardinal erelong, while no one cries 'Unfit!'
But some one smirks, some other smiles, jogs elbow and nods head:
Each winks at each: 'I'-faith, a rise! Saint Peter's net, instead
Of sword and keys, is come in vogue!' You think he blushes red?
Not he, of humble holy heart! 'Unworthy me!' he sighs:
'From fisher's drudge to Church's prince, it is indeed a rise:
So, here's my way to keep the fact forever in my eyes!'
And straightway in his palace-hall, where commonly is set
Some coat-of-arms, some portraiture ancestral, lo, we met
His mean estate's reminder in his fisherfather's net!
Which step conciliates all and some, stops cavil in a trice:
'The humble holy heart that holds of new-born pride no spice!
He's just the saint to choose for Pope!' Each adds, ''Tis my advice.'
So, Pope he was: and when we flocked, its sacred slipper on,
To kiss his foot, we lifted eyes, alack, the thing was gone,
That guarantee of lowlihead, eclipsed that star which shone!
Each eyed his fellow, one and all kept silence. I cried, 'Pish!
I'll make me spokesman for the rest, express the common wish.
Why, Father, is the net removed?' 'Son, it hath caught the fish.'
When 'Omer Smote 'Is Bloomin' Lyre
by Rudyard Kipling

When 'Omer smote 'is bloomin' lyre,
He'd 'eard men sing by land an' sea;
An' what he thought 'e might require,
'E went an' took, the same as me!
The market-girls an' fishermen,
The shepherds an' the sailors, too,
They 'eard old songs turn up again,
But kep' it quiet, same as you!
They knew 'e stole; 'e knew they knowed.
They didn't tell, nor make a fuss,
But winked at 'Omer down the road,
An' 'e winked back, the same as us!