DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Mak th' Best Ont.
by John Hartley

Mak th' best on't, - mak th' best on't, - tho' th' job be a bad en,
God bless mi life! childer, its useless to freeat!
This world's reight enuff, but it wod be a sad en,
If we all started rooarin for what we cant get.
Who knows but what th' things we mooast wish for an covet,
Are th' varry warst things we could ivver possess;
Let's shak hands wi' awr luck, an try soa to love it,
'At noa joy ov awr life shall be made onny less.
Mak th' best on't, - mak th' best on't, - ne'er heed if yor naybor
Can live withaat workin wol yo have to slave;
Ther's nowt sweetens life like some honest hard labor,
An it's th' battles yo feight 'at proves yo are brave.
Ne'er heed if grim poverty pays yo a visit,
'Twill nivver stop long if yo show a bold front;
It's noa sin to be poor, if yo cant help it, - is it?
Soa keep up yor pecker an gie sorrow a shunt.
Mak th' best on't, - mak th' best on't, - if Fortune should favor,
An a big share o' blessins pour into yor lap,
'Twill give to yor pleasures a mich better flavor,
If yo share yor gooid luck wi' some other poor chap.
Depend on't, ther's nowt tends to mak life as jolly,
As just to mak th' best ov what falls to yor lot;
For freeatin at best is a waste an a folly,
An it nivver will help to mend matters a jot.
Majestas Populi.
by Friedrich Schiller

Majesty of the nature of man! In crowds shall I seek thee?
'Tis with only a few that thou hast made thine abode.
Only a few ever count; the rest are but blanks of no value,
And the prizes are hid 'neath the vain stir that they make.
The Lioness And The She-Bear (Prose Fable)
by Jean de La Fontaine

Mamma lioness had lost one of her cubs. Some hunter had made away with it, and the poor unfortunate mother roared out her wailings to such an extent that all the inhabitants of the forest were seriously disturbed. The spells of the night, its darkness and its silence, were powerless to hush the tumult of the queen of the forest. Sleep was driven from every animal within hearing.
At last the she-bear rose up and coming to the wailing lioness said, "Good Gossip, just one word with you. All those little ones that have passed between your teeth, had they neither fathers nor mothers?"
"To be sure they had."
"Then if that be so, and as none have come to mourn their dead in cries which would split our heads: if so many mothers have borne their loss silently, why cannot you be silent also?"
"I? I be silent? Unhappy I? Ah! I have lost my son! There is nought for me but to drag out a miserable old age."
"But pray tell me what obliges you to do so."
"Alas! Destiny. It is Destiny that hates me."
Those are the words that are for ever in the mouths of us all.
Unhappy human kind, let this address itself to you. I hear nothing but the echoing murmur of trifling complaints. Whoever, in like case, believes himself the hated of the gods, let him consider Hecuba,[13] and he will render thanks for their clemency.
Doctors
by Rudyard Kipling

Man dies too soon, beside his works half-planned.
His days are counted and reprieve is vain:
Who shall entreat with Death to stay his hand;
Or cloke the shameful nakedness of pain?
Send here the bold, the seekers of the way,
The passionless, the unshakeable of soul,
Who serve the inmost mysteries of man's clay,
And ask no more than leave to make them whole.
Funeral Hymn.
by George Pope Morris

"Man dieth and wasteth away,
And where is he?"--Hark! from the skies
I hear a voice answer and say,
"The spirit of man never dies:
His body, which came from the earth,
Must mingle again with the sod;
But his soul, which in heaven had birth,
Returns to the bosom of God."
No terror has death, or the grave,
To those who believe in the Lord--
We know the Redeemer can save,
And lean on the faith of his word;
While ashes to ashes, and dust
We give unto dust, in our gloom,
The light of salvation, we trust,
Is hung like a lamp in the tomb.
The sky will be burnt as a scroll--
The earth, wrapped in flames, will expire;
But, freed from all shackles, the soul
Will rise in the midst of the fire.
Then, brothers, mourn not for the dead,
Who rest from their labors, forgiven;
Learn this from your Bible instead,
The grave is the gateway to heaven.
O Lord God Almighty! to Thee
We turn as our solace above;
The waters may fail from the sea,
But not from thy fountains of love:
Oh, teach us Thy will to obey,
And sing with one heart and accord,
"He gave and he taketh away,
And praised be the name of the Lord!"
Reproach To Laura.
by Friedrich Schiller

Maiden, stay! oh, whither wouldst thou go?
Do I still or pride or grandeur show?
Maiden, was it right?
Thou the giant mad'st a dwarf once more,
Scattered'st far the mountains that of yore
Climbed to glory's sunny height.
Thou hast doomed my flowerets to decay,
All the phantoms bright hast blown away,
Whose sweet follies formed the hero's trust;
All my plans that proudly raised their head
Thou dost, with gentle zephyr-tread,
Prostrate, laughing, in the dust.
To the godhead, eagle-like, I flew,
Smiling, fortune's juggling wheel to view,
Careless wheresoe'er her ball might fly;
Hovering far beyond Cocytus' wave,
Death and life receiving like a slave
Life and death from out one beaming eye!
Like the victors, who, with thunder-lance,
On the iron plain of glory dance,
Starting from their mistress' breast,
From Aurora's rosy bed upsprings
God's bright sun, to roam o'er towns of kings,
And to make the young world blest!
Toward the hero doth this heart still strain?
Drink I, eagle, still the fiery rain
Of thine eye, that burneth to destroy?
In the glances that destructive gleam,
Laura's love I see with sweetness beam,
Weep to see it like a boy!
My repose, like yonder image bright,
Dancing in the waters cloudless, light,
Maiden, hath been slain by thee!
On the dizzy height now totter I
Laura if from me my Laura fly!
Oh, the thought to madness hurries me!
Gladly shout the revellers as they quaff,
Raptures in the leaf-crowned goblet laugh,
Jests within the golden wine have birth,
Since the maiden hath enslaved my mind,
I have left each youthful sport behind,
Friendless roam I o'er the earth.
Hear I still bright glory's thunder-tone?
Doth the laurel still allure me on?
Doth thy lyre, Apollo Cynthius?
In my breast no echoes now arise,
Every shamefaced muse in sorrow flies,
And thou, too, Apollo Cynthius?
Shall I still be, as a woman, tame?
Do my pulses, at my country's name,
Proudly burst their prison-thralls?
Would I boast the eagle's soaring wing?
Do I long with Roman blood to spring,
When my Hermann calls?
Oh, how sweet the eye's wild gaze divine
Sweet to quaff the incense at that shrine!
Prouder, bolder, swells the breast.
That which once set every sense on fire,
That which once could every nerve inspire,
Scarce a half-smile now hath power to wrest!
That Orion might receive my fame,
On the time-flood's heaving waves my name
Rocked in glory in the mighty tide;
So that Kronos' dreaded scythe was shivered,
When against my monument is quivered,
Towering toward the firmament in pride.
Smil'st thou? No? to me naught's perished now!
Star and laurel I'll to fools allow,
To the dead their marble cell;
Love hath granted all as my reward,
High o'er man 'twere easy to have soared,
So I love him well!
Malbrouck
by Father Prout

Malbrouck, the prince of commanders,
Is gone to the war in Flanders;
His fame is like Alexander's;
But when will he come home?
Perhaps at Trinity Feast, or
Perhaps he may come at Easter.
Egad! he had better make haste, or
We fear he may never come.
For Trinity Feast is over,
And has brought no news from Dover;
And Easter is past, moreover,
And Malbrouck still delays.
Milady in her watch-tower
Spends many a pensive hour,
Not well knowing why or how her
Dear lord from England stays.
While sitting quite forlorn in
That tower, she spies returning
A page clad in deep mourning,
With fainting steps and slow.
"O page, prithee, come faster!
What news do you bring of your master?
I fear there is some disaster,
Your looks are so full of woe."
"The news I bring, fair lady,"
With sorrowful accent said he,
"Is one you are not ready
So soon, alas! to hear.
"But since to speak I'm hurried,"
Added this page, quite flurried,
"Malbrouck is dead and buried!"
(And here he shed a tear.)
"He's dead! he's dead as a herring!
For I beheld his 'berring,'
And four officers transferring
His corpse away from the field.
"One officer carried his sabre,
And he carried it not without labour,
Much envying his next neighbour,
Who only bore a shield.
"The third was helmet-bearer - 
That helmet which on its wearer
Filled all who saw with terror,
And covered a hero's brains.
"Now, having got so far, I
Find that (by the Lord Harry!)
The fourth is left nothing to carry;
So there the thing remains."
Translated by Father Prout.
Maidenhood
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Maiden! with the meek, brown eyes,
In whose orbs a shadow lies
Like the dusk in evening skies!
Thou whose locks outshine the sun,
Golden tresses, wreathed in one,
As the braided streamlets run!
Standing, with reluctant feet,
Where the brook and river meet,
Womanhood and childhood fleet!
Gazing, with a timid glance,
On the brooklet's swift advance,
On the river's broad expanse!
Deep and still, that gliding stream
Beautiful to thee must seem,
As the river of a dream.
Then why pause with indecision,
When bright angels in thy vision
Beckon thee to fields Elysian?
Seest thou shadows sailing by,
As the dove, with startled eye,
Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Hearest thou voices on the shore,
That our ears perceive no more,
Deafened by the cataract's roar?
O, thou child of many prayers!
Life hath quicksands,--Life hath snares
Care and age come unawares!
Like the swell of some sweet tune,
Morning rises into noon,
May glides onward into June.
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered
Birds and blossoms many-numbered;--
Age, that bough with snows encumbered.
Gather, then, each flower that grows,
When the young heart overflows,
To embalm that tent of snows.
Bear a lily in thy hand;
Gates of brass cannot withstand
One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth,
In thy heart the dew of youth,
On thy lips the smile of truth!
O, that dew, like balm, shall steal
Into wounds that cannot heal,
Even as sleep our eyes doth seal;
And that smile, like sunshine, dart
Into many a sunless heart,
For a smile of God thou art.
Maids' Nays Are Nothing.
by Robert Herrick

Maids' nays are nothing, they are shy
But to desire what they deny.
Maid Of The Wilderness
by John Clare

Maid of the wilderness,
Sweet in thy rural dress,
Fond thy rich lips I press
Under this tree.
Morning her health bestows,
Sprinkles dews on the rose,
That by the bramble grows:
Maid happy be.
Womanhood round thee glows,
Wander with me.
The restharrow blooming,
The sun just a-coming,
Grass and bushes illuming,
And the spreading oak tree;
Come hither, sweet Nelly,
* * *
The morning is loosing
Its incense for thee.
The pea-leaf has dews on;
Love wander with me.
We'll walk by the river,
And love more than ever;
There's nought shall dissever
My fondness from thee.
Soft ripples the water,
Flags rustle like laughter,
And fish follow after;
Leaves drop from the tree.
Nelly, Beauty's own daughter,
Love, wander with me.
A Fragment
by Anne Bronte

'Maiden, thou wert thoughtless once
Of beauty or of grace,
Simple and homely in attire
Careless of form and face.
Then whence this change, and why so oft
Dost smooth thy hazel hair?
And wherefore deck thy youthful form
With such unwearied care?
'Tell us, and cease to tire our ears
With yonder hackneyed strain
Why wilt thou play those simple tunes
So often o'er again?'
'Nay, gentle friends, I can but say
That childhood's thoughts are gone.
Each year its own new feelings brings
And years move swiftly on,
And for these little simple airs,
I love to play them o'er
So much I dare not promise now
To play them never more.'
I answered and it was enough;
They turned them to depart;
They could not read my secret thoughts
Nor see my throbbing heart.
I've noticed many a youthful form
Upon whose changeful face
The inmost workings of the soul
The gazer's eye might trace.
The speaking eye, the changing lip,
The ready blushing cheek,
The smiling or beclouded brow
Their different feelings speak.
But, thank God! you might gaze on mine
For hours and never know
The secret changes of my soul
From joy to bitter woe.
Last night, as we sat round the fire
Conversing merrily,
We heard without approaching steps
Of one well known to me.
There was no trembling in my voice,
No blush upon my cheek,
No lustrous sparkle in my eyes,
Of hope or joy to speak;
But O my spirit burned within,
My heart beat thick and fast.
He came not nigh, he went away
And then my joy was past.
And yet my comrades marked it not,
My voice was still the same;
They saw me smile, and o'er my face
No signs of sadness came;
They little knew my hidden thoughts
And they will never know
The anguish of my drooping heart,
The bitter aching woe!
Make The Most Of This Life.
by Freeman Edwin Miller

Make the most of this life; where the shadow reposes
The beams of the summer shall gather in glee,
And the snow on the graves of the lilies and roses
But cradles the blooms that shall whiten the lea;
Though the hopes of the heart be encircled with sorrow
And billows of wretchedness mutter and roll,
There shall come with the morn of the bountiful morrow
The pleasures that gladden the desolate soul.
Make the most of this life; where the carols are sleeping
That rose in their rapture from lips of the spring,
That awakened the world from its winter of weeping,
Sweet songs shall be sung by the birds on the wing.
Though the bosom be dark with the dirges of sadness
And solitudes gather so heavy and lone,
There shall float from the musical meadows of gladness
The ravishing measures that banish each groan.
Make the most of this life; 'tis a garden of beauty,
Where, blushing, the blossoms grow tenderly-sweet,
While they brighten the years of man's labor and duty
And scatter the kisses of love at his feet;
'Tis a world that is wild with the laughter of living
When hands do the brotherly kindness they can,
And its hearts are the treasures of tenderness giving
To soften and sweeten the nature of man.
Make the most of this life; there is happiness in it,
When souls find a theme for their jubilant song;
There is music, when angels are taught to begin it,
Which never was marred with a murmur of wrong;
There are voices that sing in their sweetness forever,
And mutter no strains of contention or strife,
Neither burden the hours with the pangs of endeavor,
When we, with our deeds, make the most of this life.
Age Unfit For Love.
by Robert Herrick

Maidens tell me I am old;
Let me in my glass behold
Whether smooth or not I be,
Or if hair remains to me.
Well, or be't or be't not so,
This for certainty I know,
Ill it fits old men to play,
When that Death bids come away.
Farm Breakfast
by John Clare

Maids shout to breakfast in a merry strife,
And the cat runs to hear the whetted knife,
And dogs are ever in the way to watch
The mouldy crust and falling bone to catch.
The wooden dishes round in haste are set,
And round the table all the boys are met;
All know their own save Hodge who would be first,
But every one his master leaves the worst.
On every wooden dish, a humble claim,
Two rude cut letters mark the owner's name;
From every nook the smile of plenty calls,
And rusty flitches decorate the walls,
Moore's Almanack where wonders never cease--
All smeared with candle snuff and bacon grease.
To His Book
by Robert Herrick

Make haste away, and let one be
A friendly patron unto thee;
Lest, rapt from hence, I see thee lie
Torn for the use of pastery;
Or see thy injured leaves serve well
To make loose gowns for mackerel;
Or see the grocers, in a trice,
Make hoods of thee to serve out spice.
Thy Heart
by George MacDonald

Make not of thy heart a casket,
Opening seldom, quick to close;
But of bread a wide-mouthed basket,
Or a cup that overflows.
Tortoise Gallantry
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

Making his advances
He does not look at her, nor sniff at her,
No, not even sniff at her, his nose is blank.
Only he senses the vulnerable folds of skin
That work beneath her while she sprawls along
In her ungainly pace,
Her folds of skin that work and row
Beneath    the     earth-soiled    hovel    in    which    she moves.
And so he strains beneath her housey walls
And catches her trouser-legs in his beak
Suddenly, or her skinny limb,
And strange and grimly drags at her
Like a dog,
Only agelessly silent, with a reptile's awful persistency.
Grim, gruesome gallantry, to which he is doomed.
Dragged out of an eternity of silent isolation
And doomed to partiality, partial being,
Ache, and want of being,
Want,
Self-exposure, hard humiliation, need to add himself on to her.
Born to walk alone,
Forerunner,
Now suddenly distracted into this mazy sidetrack,
This awkward, harrowing pursuit,
This grim necessity from within.
Does she know
As she moves eternally slowly away?
Or is he driven against her with a bang, like a bird flying in the dark against a window,
All knowledgeless?
The awful concussion,
And the still more awful need to persist, to follow, follow, continue,
Driven,     after    aeons    of    pristine,     fore-god-like singleness and oneness,
At the end of some mysterious, red-hot iron,
Driven away from himself into her tracks,
Forced to crash against her.
Stiff, gallant, irascible, crook-legged reptile,
Little gentleman,
Sorry plight,
We ought to look the other way.
Save that, having come with you so far,
We will go on to the end.
To God.
by Robert Herrick

Make, make me Thine, my gracious God,
Or with Thy staff, or with Thy rod;
And be the blow, too, what it will,
Lord, I will kiss it, though it kill:
Beat me, bruise me, rack me, rend me,
Yet, in torments, I'll commend Thee;
Examine me with fire, and prove me
To the full, yet I will love Thee;
Nor shall Thou give so deep a wound
But I as patient will be found.
Maggie
by Violet Jacob

Maggie, I ken that ye are happ'd in glory
And nane can gar ye greet;
The joys o' Heaven are evermair afore ye,
It's licht about yer feet.
I ken nae waefu' thochts can e'er be near ye
Nor sorrow fash yer mind,
In yon braw place they winna let ye weary
For him ye left behind.
Thae nichts an' days when dule seems mair nor double
I'll need to dae my best,
For aye ye took the half o' ilka trouble,
And noo I'd hae ye rest.
Yer he'rt'll be the same he'rt since yer flittin',
Gin auld love doesna tire,
Sae dinna look an' see yer lad that's sittin'
His lane aside the fire.
The sky is keen wi' dancin' stars in plenty,
The New Year frost is strang;
But, O my lass! because the Auld Year kent ye
I'm sweir to let it gang!
But time drives forrit; and on ilk December
There waits a New Year yet,
An naething bides but what our he'rts remember - 
Maggie, ye'll na forget?
Nursery Rhyme. CXCVI. Riddles.
by Unknown

[Tobacco.]
Make three-fourths of a cross,
And a circle complete;
And let two semicircles
On a perpendicular meet;
Next add a triangle
That stands on two feet;
Next two semicircles,
And a circle complete.
To Mary Who Died In This Opinion.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

1.
Maiden, quench the glare of sorrow
Struggling in thine haggard eye:
Firmness dare to borrow
From the wreck of destiny;
For the ray morn's bloom revealing
Can never boast so bright an hue
As that which mocks concealing,
And sheds its loveliest light on you.
2.
Yet is the tie departed
Which bound thy lovely soul to bliss?
Has it left thee broken-hearted
In a world so cold as this?
Yet, though, fainting fair one,
Sorrow's self thy cup has given,
Dream thou'lt meet thy dear one,
Never more to part, in Heaven.
3.
Existence would I barter
For a dream so dear as thine,
And smile to die a martyr
On affection's bloodless shrine.
Nor would I change for pleasure
That withered hand and ashy cheek,
If my heart enshrined a treasure
Such as forces thine to break.
Curiosity
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Mammy's in de kitchen, an' de do' is shet;
All de pickaninnies climb an' tug an' sweat,
Gittin' to de winder, stickin' dah lak flies,
Evah one ermong us des all nose an' eyes.
"Whut's she cookin', Isaac?"
"Whut's she cookin', Jake?"
"Is it sweet pertaters? Is hit pie er cake?"
But we couldn't mek out even whah we stood
Whut was mammy cookin' dat could smell so good.
Mammy spread de winder, an' she frown an' frown,
How de pickaninnies come a-tum-blin' down!
Den she say: "Ef you-all keeps a-peepin' in,
How I'se gwine to whup you, my! 't 'ill be a sin!
Need n' come a-sniffin' an' a-nosin' hyeah,
'Ca'se I knows my business, nevah feah."
Won't somebody tell us--how I wish dey would!--
Whut is mammy cookin' dat it smells so good?
We know she means business, an' we dassent stay,
Dough it's mighty tryin' fuh to go erway;
But we goes a-troopin' down de ol' wood-track
'Twell dat steamin' kitchen brings us stealin' back,
Climbin' an' a-peepin' so's to see inside.
Whut on earf kin mammy be so sha'p to hide?
I'd des up an' tell folks w'en I knowed I could,
Ef I was a-cookin' t'ings dat smelt so good.
Mammy in de oven, an' I see huh smile;
Moufs mus' be a-wat'rin' roun' hyeah fuh a mile;
Den we almos' hollah ez we hu'ies down,
'Ca'se hit's apple dumplin's, big an' fat an' brown!
W'en de do' is opened, solemn lak an' slow,
Wisht you see us settin' all dah in a row
Innercent an' p'opah, des lak chillun should
W'en dey mammy's cookin' t'ings dat smell so good.
Tiare Tahiti (The South Seas)
by Rupert Brooke

Mamua, when our laughter ends,
And hearts and bodies, brown as white,
Are dust about the doors of friends,
Or scent ablowing down the night,
Then, oh! then, the wise agree,
Comes our immortality.
Mamua, there waits a land
Hard for us to understand.
Out of time, beyond the sun,
All are one in Paradise,
You and Pupure are one,
And Tau, and the ungainly wise.
There the Eternals are, and there
The Good, the Lovely, and the True,
And Types, whose earthly copies were
The foolish broken things we knew;
There is the Face, whose ghosts we are;
The real, the never-setting Star;
And the Flower, of which we love
Faint and fading shadows here;
Never a tear, but only Grief;
Dance, but not the limbs that move;
Songs in Song shall disappear;
Instead of lovers, Love shall be;
For hearts, Immutability;
And there, on the Ideal Reef,
Thunders the Everlasting Sea!
And my laughter, and my pain,
Shall home to the Eternal Brain.
And all lovely things, they say,
Meet in Loveliness again;
Miri's laugh, Teipo's feet,
And the hands of Matua,
Stars and sunlight there shall meet,
Coral's hues and rainbows there,
And Teura's braided hair;
And with the starred 'tiare's' white,
And white birds in the dark ravine,
And 'flamboyants' ablaze at night,
And jewels, and evening's after-green,
And dawns of pearl and gold and red,
Mamua, your lovelier head!
And there'll no more be one who dreams
Under the ferns, of crumbling stuff,
Eyes of illusion, mouth that seems,
All time-entangled human love.
And you'll no longer swing and sway
Divinely down the scented shade,
Where feet to Ambulation fade,
And moons are lost in endless Day.
How shall we wind these wreaths of ours,
Where there are neither heads nor flowers?
Oh, Heaven's Heaven! -- but we'll be missing
The palms, and sunlight, and the south;
And there's an end, I think, of kissing,
When our mouths are one with Mouth. . . .
'Tau here', Mamua,
Crown the hair, and come away!
Hear the calling of the moon,
And the whispering scents that stray
About the idle warm lagoon.
Hasten, hand in human hand,
Down the dark, the flowered way,
Along the whiteness of the sand,
And in the water's soft caress,
Wash the mind of foolishness,
Mamua, until the day.
Spend the glittering moonlight there
Pursuing down the soundless deep
Limbs that gleam and shadowy hair,
Or floating lazy, half-asleep.
Dive and double and follow after,
Snare in flowers, and kiss, and call,
With lips that fade, and human laughter
And faces individual,
Well this side of Paradise! . . .
There's little comfort in the wise.