DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
What They Saw
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Sad man, Sad man, tell me, pray,
What did you see to-day?
I saw the unloved and unhappy old, waiting for slow delinquent death to come;
Pale little children toiling for the rich, in rooms where sunlight is ashamed to go;
The awful almshouse, where the living dead rot slowly in their hideous open graves.
And there were shameful things.
Soldiers and forts, and industries of death, and devil-ships, and loud- winged devil-birds,
All bent on slaughter and destruction.    These and yet more shameful things mine eyes beheld:
Old men upon lascivious conquest bent, and young men living with no thought of God,
And half-clothed women puffing at a weed, aping the vices of the underworld,
Engrossed in shallow pleasures and intent on being barren wives.
These things I saw.
(How God must loathe His earth!)
Glad man, Glad man, tell me, pray.
What did you see to-day?
I saw an aged couple, in whose eyes
Shone that deep light of mingled love and faith,
Which makes the earth one room of paradise,
And leaves no sting in death.
I saw vast regiments of children pour,
Rank after rank, out of the schoolroom door
By Progress mobilised.    They seemed to say:
'Let ignorance make way.
We are the heralds of a better day.'
I saw the college and the church that stood
For all things sane and good.
I saw God's helpers in the shop and slum
Blazing a path for health and hope to come,
And True Religion, from the grave of creeds,
Springing to meet man's needs.
I saw great Science reverently stand
And listen for a sound from Border-land,
No longer arrogant with unbelief -
Holding itself aloof -
But drawing near, and searching high and low
For that complete and all-convincing proof
Which shall permit its voice to comfort grief,
Saying, 'We know.'
I saw fair women in their radiance rise
And trample old traditions in the dust.
Looking in their clear eyes,
I seemed to hear these words as from the skies:
'He who would father our sweet children must
Be worthy of the trust.'
Against the rosy dawn, I saw unfurled
The banner of the race we usher in,
The supermen and women of the world,
Who make no code of sex to cover sin;
Before they till the soil of parenthood,
They look to it that seed and soil are good.
And I saw, too, that old, old sight, and best -
Pure mothers, with dear babies at the breast.
These things I saw.
(How God must love His earth!)
The Tree-Toad
by James Whitcomb Riley

"'S cur'ous-like," said the tree-toad,
"I've twittered fer rain all day;
And I got up soon,
And hollered tel noon -
But the sun, hit blazed away,
Tell I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole,
Weary at hart, and sick at soul!
"Dozed away fer an hour,
And I tackled the thing agin:
And I sung, and sung,
Tel I knowed my lung
Was jest about give in;
And THEN, thinks I, ef hit don't rain NOW,
They's nothin' in singin', anyhow!
"Onc't in a while some farmer
Would come a-drivin' past;
And he'd hear my cry,
And stop and sigh -
Tel I jest laid back, at last,
And I hollered rain tel I thought my th'oat
Would bust wide open at ever' note!
"But I FETCHED her! - O I FETCHED her! -
'Cause a little while ago,
As I kindo' set,
With one eye shet,
And a-singin' soft and low,
A voice drapped down on my fevered brain,
A-sayin', - 'EF YOU'LL JEST HUSH I'LL RAIN!'"
Lament VII
by Jan Kochanowski

Sad trinkets of my little daughter, dresses
That touched her like caresses,
Why do you draw my mournful eyes? To borrow
A newer weight of sorrow?
No longer will you clothe her form, to fold her
Around, and wrap her, hold her.
A hard, unwaking sleep has overpowered
Her limbs, and now the flowered
Cool muslin and the ribbon snoods are bootless,
The gilded girdles fruitless.
My little girl, 'twas to a bed far other
That one day thy poor mother
Had thought to lead thee, and this simple dower
Suits not the bridal hour;
A tiny shroud and gown of her own sewing
She gives thee at thy going.
Thy rather brings a clod of earth, a somber
Pillow for thy last slumber.
And so a single casket, scant of measure,
Locks thee and all thy treasure.
The Mayflowers
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Sad Mayflower! watched by winter stars,
And nursed by winter gales,
With petals of the sleeted spars,
And leaves of frozen sails
What had she in those dreary hours,
Within her ice-rimmed bay,
In common with the wild-wood flowers,
The first sweet smiles of May?
Yet, 'God be praised!' the Pilgrim said,
Who saw the blossoms peer
Above the brown leaves, dry anal dead
'Behold our Mayflower here!'
'God wills it: here our rest shall be
Our years of wandering o'er;
For us the Mayflower of the sea,
Shall spread her sails no more.'
O sacred flowers of faith and hope,
As sweetly now as then
Ye bloom on many a birchen slope,
In many a pine-dark glen.
Behind the sea-wall's rugged length,
Unchanged, your, leaves unfold
Like love behind the manly strength
Of the brave hearts of old.
So live the fathers in their sons,
Their sturdy faith be ours,
And ours the love that overruns
Its rocky strength with flowers.
The Pilgrim's wild and wintry day
Its shadow round us draws;
The Mayflower of his stormy bay,
Our Freedom's struggling cause.
But warmer suns ere long shall bring
To life the frozen sod;
And, through dead leaves of hope, shall spring
Afresh the flowers of God!
Tarantella
by D. H. Lawrence (David Herbert Richards)

Sad as he sits on the white sea-stone
And the suave sea chuckles, and turns to the moon,
And the moon significant smiles at the cliffs and the boulders.
He sits like a shade by the flood alone
While I dance a tarantella on the rocks, and the croon
Of my mockery mocks at him over the waves' bright shoulders.
What can I do but dance alone,
Dance to the sliding sea and the moon,
For the moon on my breast and the air on my limbs and the foam on my feet?
For surely this earnest man has none
Of the night in his soul, and none of the tune
Of the waters within him; only the world's old wisdom to bleat.
I wish a wild sea-fellow would come down the glittering shingle,
A soulless neckar, with winking seas in his eyes
And falling waves in his arms, and the lost soul's kiss
On his lips: I long to be soulless, I tingle
To touch the sea in the last surprise
Of fiery coldness, to be gone in a lost soul's bliss.
Big Bear The Indian Chief.
by James McIntyre

The following impromptu was given at a banquet to one of the captives of Fort Pit after he had related his experience.
Sad memories it doth awake,
The death of those fell at Frog Lake,
And trials of captives of Fort Pit
When savages did capture it.
But soon Generals Strange and Steel
Made savage hordes their power to feel,
And they rescued women fair
From the paws of the Big Bear.
Captives for days had naught to eat
But steaks of tough and lean dog meat,
In daily danger of their lives
From bullets and from scalping knives.
When building big lodge for war dance,
The cry is heard, the troops advance,
To the white captives sounds so sweet,
But savages they quick retreat.
A thrilling tale our guest[A] did tell,
That close to him fell bursting shell,
This shot it was not fired in vain,
For several savages were slain.
Our bold troops great danger braved,
So that white captives might be saved,
Who suffered hunger, cold and damp,
'Mong savage hordes in bush and swamp.
Big Bear now they have pared his claws,
He must atone for broken laws,
Far away from his native lair,
In prison strong they put Big Bear.
The Late W. V. Wild, Esq.
by Henry Kendall

Sad faces came round, and I dreamily said
'Though the harp of my country now slumbers,
Some hand will pass o'er it, in love for the dead,
And attune it to sorrowful numbers!'
But the hopes that I clung to are withering things,
For the days have gone by with a cloud on their wings,
And the touch of a bard is unknown to the strings
Oh, why art thou silent, Australia?
The leaves of the autumn are scattering fast,
The willows look barren and lonely;
But I dream a sad dream of my friend of the past,
And his form I can dwell upon only!
In the strength of his youth I can see him go by.
There is health on the cheek, and a fire in the eye
Oh, who would have thought that such beauty could die!
Ah, mourn for thy noblest, Australia!
A strange shadow broods o'er the desolate earth,
And the cypresses tremble and quiver;
But my heart waxeth dark with the thoughts of the worth
That has left us for ever and ever!
A dull cloud creepeth close to the moon,
And the winter winds pass with a shuddering croon
Oh, why was he snatched from his brothers so soon?
Ah, weep for thy lost one, Australia!
How weary we grow when we turn to reflect
Upon what we have seen and believed in;
When harping on promises hopelessly wrecked,
And the things we have all been deceived in!
When a voice that I loved lingers near to me yet!
And a kind, handsome face which I'll never forget
Can I wake to the present and stifle regret
Can I smother these feelings, Australia?
It is useless to grieve o'er the light that has fled
But the harp of my country still slumbers;
And I thought that some bard in his love for the dead,
Would have thrilled it to sorrowful numbers!
Lo, the hopes that I clung to are withering things
For the days have gone by with a cloud on their wings,
And my hand is too feeble to strike at the strings
Oh, why art thou silent, Australia?
Old Ben
by Walter De La Mare

Sad is old Ben Thistlewaite,
Now his day is done,
And all his children
Far away are gone.
He sits beneath his jasmined porch,
His stick between his knees,
His eyes fixed vacant
On his moss-grown trees.
Grass springs in the green path,
His flowers are lean and dry,
His thatch hangs in wisps against
The evening sky.
He has no heart to care now,
Though the winds will blow
Whistling in his casement,
And the rain drip thro'.
He thinks of his old Bettie,
How she'd shake her head and say,
'You'll live to wish my sharp old tongue
Could scold - some day,'
But as in pale high autumn skies
The swallows float and play,
His restless thoughts pass to and fro,
But nowhere stay.
Soft, on the morrow, they are gone;
His garden then will be
Denser and shadier and greener,
Greener the moss-grown tree.
The Sea.
by Paul Bewsher

Sad is the lonely sea - 
So vast, and smooth, and grey
It stretches far from me.
Sad is the lonely sea!
Its cheerful colours flee
Before the fading day.
Sad is the lonely sea
So vast, and smooth, and grey!
To Fall
by Madison Julius Cawein

Sad-Hearted spirit of the solitudes,
Who comest through the ruin-wedded woods!
Gray-gowned with fog, gold-girdled with the gloom
Of tawny twilights; burdened with perfume
Of rain-wet uplands, chilly with the mist;
And all the beauty of the fire-kissed
Cold forests crimsoning thy indolent way,
Odorous of death and drowsy with decay.
I think of thee as seated 'mid the showers
Of languid leaves that cover up the flowers,
The little flower-sisterhoods, whom June
Once gave wild sweetness to, as to a tune
A singer gives her sours wild melody,
Watching the squirrel store his granary.
Or, 'mid old orchards I have pictured thee:
Thy hair's profusion blown about thy back;
One lovely shoulder bathed with gypsy black;
Upon thy palm one nestling check, and sweet
The rosy russets tumbled at thy feet.
Was it a voice lamenting for the flowers?
A heart-sick bird that sang of happier hours?
A cricket dirging days that soon must die?
Or did the ghost of Summer wander by?
Second Fig
by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:
Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!
Why Washington Retreated
by Ellis Parker Butler

1775
Said Congress to George Washington:
"To set this country free,
You'll have to whip the Britishers
And chase them o'er the sea."
"Oh, very well," said Washington,
"I'll do the best I can.
I'll slam and bang those Britishers
And whip them to a man."
1777
Said Congress to George Washington:
"The people all complain;
Why don't you fight? You but retreat
And then retreat again."
"That can't be helped," said Washington,
"As you will quite agree
When you see how the novelists
Have mixed up things for me."
Said Congress to George Washington:
"Pray make your meaning clear."
Said Washington: "Why, certainly
But pray excuse this tear.
Of course we know," said Washington,
"The object of this war
It is to furnish novelists
With patriotic lore."
Said Congress to George Washington:
"Yes! yes! but pray proceed."
Said Washington: "My part in it
Is difficult indeed,
For every hero in the books
Must sometime meet with me,
And every sweet-faced heroine
I must kiss gallantly."
Said Congress to George Washington:
"But why must you retreat?"
Said Washington: "One moment, please,
My story to complete.
These hero-folk are scattered through
The whole United States;
At every little country town
A man or maiden waits."
To Congress said George Washington:
"At Harlem I must be
On such a day to chat with one,
And then I'll have to flee
With haste to Jersey, there to meet
Another. Here's a list
Of sixty-seven heroes, and
There may be some I've missed."
To Congress said George Washington:
"Since I must meet them all
(And if I don't you know how flat
The novels all will fall),
I cannot take much time to fight,
I must be on the run,
Or some historic novelist
Will surely be undone."
Said Congress to George Washington:
"You are a noble man.
Your thoughtfulness is notable,
And we approve your plan;
A battle won pads very well
A novel that is thin,
But it is better to retreat
Than miss one man and win."
Said Congress to George Washington:
"Kiss every pretty maid,
But do it in a courtly way
And in a manner staid
And some day when your sword is sheathed
And all our banners furled,
A crop of novels will spring up
That shall appal the world."
The Olive Branch
by Robert Herrick

Sadly I walk'd within the field,
To see what comfort it would yield;
And as I went my private way,
An olive-branch before me lay;
And seeing it, I made a stay,
And took it up, and view'd it; then
Kissing the omen, said Amen;
Be, be it so, and let this be
A divination unto me;
That in short time my woes shall cease,
And love shall crown my end with peace.
The Window Overlooking the Harbour
by Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Cory Nicolson)

Sad is the Evening: all the level sand
Lies left and lonely, while the restless sea,
Tired of the green caresses of the land,
Withdraws into its own infinity.
But still more sad this white and chilly Dawn
Filling the vacant spaces of the sky,
While little winds blow here and there forlorn
And all the stars, weary of shining, die.
And more than desolate, to wake, to rise,
Leaving the couch, where softly sleeping still,
What through the past night made my heaven, lies;
And looking out across the window sill
See, from the upper window's vantage ground,
Mankind slip into harness once again,
And wearily resume his daily round
Of love and labour, toil and strife and pain.
How the sad thoughts slip back across the night:
The whole thing seems so aimless and so vain.
What use the raptures, passion and delight,
Burnt out; as though they could not wake again.
The worn-out nerves and weary brain repeat
The question: Whither all these passions tend; - 
This curious thirst, so painful and so sweet,
So fierce, so very short-lived, to what end?
Even, if seeking for ourselves, the Race,
The only immortality we know, - 
Even if from the flower of our embrace
Some spark should kindle, or some fruit should grow,
What were the use? the gain, to us or it,
That we should cause another You or Me, - 
Another life, from our light passion lit,
To suffer like ourselves awhile and die.
What aim, what end indeed?    Our being runs
In a closed circle.    All we know or see
Tends to assure us that a thousand Suns,
Teeming perchance with life, have ceased to be.
Ah, the grey Dawn seems more than desolate,
And the past night of passion worse than waste,
Love but a useless flower, that soon or late,
Turns to a fruit with bitter aftertaste.
Youth, even Youth, seems futile and forlorn
While the new day grows slowly white above.
Pale and reproachful comes the chilly Dawn
After the fervour of a night of love.
On Reading In A Newspaper The Death Of John M'Leod, Esq. Brother To A Young Lady, A Particular Friend Of The Author's.
by Robert Burns

Sad thy tale, thou idle page,
And rueful thy alarms:
Death tears the brother of her love
From Isabella's arms.
Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew
The morning rose may blow;
But cold successive noontide blasts
May lay its beauties low.
Fair on Isabella's morn
The sun propitious smil'd;
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds
Succeeding hopes beguil'd.
Fate oft tears the bosom chords
That nature finest strung:
So Isabella's heart was form'd,
And so that heart was wrung.
Were it in the poet's power,
Strong as he shares the grief
That pierces Isabella's heart,
To give that heart relief!
Dread Omnipotence, alone,
Can heal the wound He gave;
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes
To scenes beyond the grave.
Virtue's blossoms there shall blow,
And fear no withering blast;
There Isabella's spotless worth
Shall happy be at last.
Sadly, O, Sadly
by Walter De La Mare

Sadly, O, sadly, the sweet bells of Baddeley
Played in their steeples when Robin was gone,
Killed by an arrow,
Shot by Cock Sparrow,
Out of a Maybush, fragrant and wan.
Grievedly, grievedly, tolled distant Shieveley,
When the Dwarfs laid poor Snow-white asleep on the hill,
Drowsed by an apple,
The Queen, sly and subtle,
Had cut with her knife on the blossomy sill.
Cotton And Corn. A Dialogue.
by Thomas Moore

Said Cotton to Corn, t'other day,
As they met and exchanged a salute--
(Squire Corn in his carriage so gay,
Poor Cotton half famished on foot):
"Great Squire, if it isn't uncivil
"To hint at starvation before you,
"Look down on a poor hungry devil,
"And give him some bread, I implore you!"
Quoth Corn then in answer to Cotton,
Perceiving he meant to make free--
"Low fellow, you've surely forgotten
"The distance between you and me!
"To expect that we Peers of high birth
"Should waste our illustrious acres,
"For no other purpose on earth
"Than to fatten curst calico-makers!--
"That Bishops to bobbins should bend--
"Should stoop from their Bench's sublimity,
"Great dealers in lawn, to befriend
"Such contemptible dealers in dimity!
"No--vile Manufacture! ne'er harbor
"A hope to be fed at our boards;--
"Base offspring of Arkwright the barber,
"What claim canst thou have upon Lords?
"No--thanks to the taxes and debt,
"And the triumph of paper o'er guineas,
"Our race of Lord Jemmys, as yet,
"May defy your whole rabble of Jennys!"
So saying--whip, crack, and away
Went Corn in his chaise thro' the throng,
So headlong, I heard them all say,
"Squire Corn will be down before long."
The Fox Without A Tail
by Walter Crane

Said Fox, minus tail in a trap,
"My friends! here's a lucky mishap:
Give your tails a short lease!"
But the foxes weren't geese,
And none followed the fashion of trap.
Yet Some Fashions Have No Better Reason
My Books
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Sadly as some old mediaeval knight
Gazed at the arms he could no longer wield,
The sword two-handed and the shining shield
Suspended in the hall, and full in sight,
While secret longings for the lost delight
Of tourney or adventure in the field
Came over him, and tears but half concealed
Trembled and fell upon his beard of white,
So I behold these books upon their shelf,
My ornaments and arms of other days;
Not wholly useless, though no longer used,
For they remind me of my other self,
Younger and stronger, and the pleasant ways
In which I walked, now clouded and confused.
"Safe In Their Alabaster Chambers,"
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Safe in their alabaster chambers,
Untouched by morning and untouched by noon,
Sleep the meek members of the resurrection,
Rafter of satin, and roof of stone.
Light laughs the breeze in her castle of sunshine;
Babbles the bee in a stolid ear;
Pipe the sweet birds in ignorant cadence, --
Ah, what sagacity perished here!
Grand go the years in the crescent above them;
Worlds scoop their arcs, and firmaments row,
Diadems drop and Doges surrender,
Soundless as dots on a disk of snow.
Oh Thou Of Little Faith!
by George MacDonald

Sad-hearted, be at peace: the snowdrop lies
Buried in sepulchre of ghastly snow;
But spring is floating up the southern skies,
And darkling the pale snowdrop waits below.
Let me persuade: in dull December's day
We scarce believe there is a month of June;
But up the stairs of April and of May
The hot sun climbeth to the summer's noon.
Yet hear me: I love God, and half I rest.
O better! God loves thee, so all rest thou.
He is our summer, our dim-visioned Best;--
And in his heart thy prayer is resting now.
Epitaph. On Matilda.
by Thomas Gent

Sacred to Pity! is upraised this stone,
The humble tribute of a friend unknown;
To grant the beauteous wreck its hallow'd claim,
And add to misery's scroll another name.
Poor lost MATILDA! now in silence laid
Within the early grave thy sorrows made.
Sleep on!--his heart still holds thy image dear,
Who view'd, through life, thy errors with a tear;
Who ne'er with stoic apathy repress'd
The heartfelt sigh for loveliness distress'd.
That sigh for thee shall ne'er forget to heave;
'Tis all he now can give, or thou receive.
When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom,
That promised health and joy for years to come,
Methought the lily nature proudly gave,
Would never wither in th' untimely grave.
Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hour
Saw the dire tempest 'whelm th' expanding flower!
Then from thy tongue its music ceased to flow;
Thine eye forgot to gleam with aught but woe;
Peace fled thy breast; invincible despair
Usurp'd her seat, and struck his daggers there.
Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly?
And, ah! what then was left thee--but to die!
Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath,
Or mingled solace with the pangs of death:
No priest proclaim'd the erring hour forgiven,
Or sooth'd thy spirit to its native heav'n:
But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come,
And hovering angels hail'd their sister home.
I, where the marble swells not, to rehearse
Thy hapless fate, inscribe my simple verse.
Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell;
Accept its offering, while it heaves--farewell!
Sabbaths.
by Robert Herrick

Sabbaths are threefold, as St. Austin says:
The first of time, or Sabbath here of days;
The second is a conscience trespass-free;
The last the Sabbath of Eternity.
The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - XVIII - Seathwaite Chapel
by William Wordsworth

Sacred Religion! "mother of form and fear,"
Dread arbitress of mutable respect,
New rites ordaining when the old are wrecked,
Or cease to please the fickle worshiper;
Mother of Love! (that name best suits thee here)
Mother of Love! for this deep vale, protect
Truth's holy lamp, pure source of bright effect,
Gifted to purge the vapoury atmosphere
That seeks to stifle it; as in those days
When this low Pile a Gospel Teacher knew,
Whose good works formed an endless retinue:
A Pastor such as Chaucer's verse portrays;
Such as the heaven-taught skill of Herbert drew;
And tender Goldsmith crowned with deathless praise!
Hymn.
by Thomas Gent

Sung by the Children of the City of London School of Instruction and Industry.
CHORUS.
Sacred, and heart-deep be the sound
Which speaks the Great Redeemer's praise,
His mercies every where abound,
Let all their grateful voices raise.
BOYS.
The friendless child, to manhood grown,
Will ne'er forget your parent care;
You've made each youthful heart your own,
Oh! then accept our humble prayer.
GIRLS.
For ever be that bounty praised,
Which every comfort doth impart;
In tears of joy the song is raised
From minstrels of the glowing heart.
CHORUS.
Glory to Thee, all-bounteous Power!
In notes of thankfulness be given;
Sure solace in affliction's hour!
Our hope on Earth, our bliss in Heaven.
Hallelujah! Amen.
Rewards
by Unknown

Said a great Congregational preacher
To a hen, "You're a beautiful creature."
And the hen, just for that,
Laid an egg in his hat,
And thus did the Hen reward Beecher.
The Stag In The Ox Stall
by Walter Crane

Safe enough lay the poor hunted Deer
In the ox-stall, with nothing to fear
From the careless-eyed men:
Till the Master came; then
There was no hiding-place for the Deer.
An Eye Is Keen In Its Own Interest