bluuebunny/crossref_metadata_2025_split huggingface dataset:
Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Newcastle (1624–1674)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
A Discourse on Melancholy
A sad and solemn verse doth please the mind, With chains of passions doth the spirits bind. As pencilled pictures drawn presents the night, Whose darker shadows give the eye delight, Melancholy aspects invite the eye,
And always have a seeming majesty. By its converting qualities there grows A perfect likeness, when itself it shows.
Then let the world in mourning sit and weep, Since only sadness we are apt to keep.
In light and toyish things we seek for change; The mind grows weary, and about doth range. What serious is, there constancies will dwell; Which shows that sadness mirth doth far excel.
Why should men grieve when they do think of death, Since they no settlement can have in mirth?
The grave, though sad, in quiet still they keep: Without disturbing dreams they lie asleep,
No rambling thoughts to vex their restless brains, Nor labour hard, to scorch and dry their veins.
No care to search for that they cannot find, Which is an appetite to every mind.
Then wish, good man, to die in quiet peace, Since death in misery is a release.
James Carkesse (published 1679)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
On the Doctors’ Telling Him that till He Left off Making Verses He Was Not Fit to be Discharged
Desiring his imprisoned Muse to enlarge,
The poet, Mad-quack moved, for his discharge. He angry answered, ‘Parson, ‘tis too soon:
As yet I have not cured you of lampoon;
For know, New Bedlam chiefly for the infected With this new sort of madness was erected: Bucks both and Rochester, unless they mend, Hither the king designs forthwith to send.
Shepherd and Dryden too must on ‘em wait; For he’s resolved at once to rid the state
Of this poetic, wanton, madlike tribe,
Whose rampant Muse does court and city gibe. Thus Bedlam may be cured perchance, if it hits, After despair of physic, by the wits.’
The answer pleased; yet I have cause to fear The doctor flattered, as ‘tis usual here.
But if my brethren come, I’ve learned this lesson: In such good company, Bedlam is no prison.
Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea (1661–1720)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
The Spleen: A Pindaric Poem
What art thou, spleen, which ev’ry thing dost ape Thou Proteus to abus’d Mankind,
Who never yet thy real Cause cou’d find,
Or fix thee to remain in one continued Shape. Still varying thy perplexing Form,
Now a Dead Sea thou’lt represent, A Calm of stupid Discontent,
Then, dashing on the Rocks wilt rage into a Storm. Trembling sometimes thou dost appear,
Dissolv’d into a Panick Fear;
On Sleep intruding dost thy Shadows spread, Thy gloomy Terrours round the silent Bed,
And croud with boading Dreams the Melancholy Head: Or, when the Midnight Hour is told,
And drooping Lids thou still dost waking hold, Thy fond Delusions cheat the Eyes,
Before them antick Spectres dance, Unusual Fires their pointed Heads advance, And airy Phantoms rise.
Such was the monstrous Vision seen,
When Brutus (now beneath his Cares opprest, And all Rome’s Fortunes rolling in his Breast, Before Philippi’s latest Field,
Before his Fate did to Octavius lead) Was vanquish’d by the Spleen.
Falsly, the Mortal Part we blame
Of our deprest, and pond’rous Frame, Which, till the First degrading Sin
Let Thee, its dull Attendant, in, Still with the Other did comply,
Nor clogg’d the Active Soul, dispos’d to fly,
Edward Ward (1667–1731)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
The Extravagant Drunkard’s Wish
Had I my Wish I would distend my Guts
As wide as from the North to Southern Skies, And have, at once, as many Mouths and Throats,
As old Briarius Arms, or Argos Eyes. The raging Sea’s unpallatable Brine,
That drowns so many Thousands in a Year, I’d turn into an Ocean of good Wine,
And for my Cup would chuse the Hemisphere: Would then perform the Wager Xanthus laid,
In spight of all the Rivers flowing Streams, Swill, till I piss’d a Deluge, then to Bed,
And please my thirsty Soul with Small-Beer Dreams.
Thus Drink and Sleep, and waking Swill again, Till I had drunk the Sea-Gods Cellars dry,
Then rob the Niggard Neptune and his Train Of Tritons, of that Wealth they now enjoy.
Kiss the whole Nerides, and make the Jades
Sing all their charming Songs to please my Ear, And whether Flesh or Fish, Thornbacks or Maids,
I’d make the Gypsies kind thro’ Love or Fear. And when thus Wicked and thus Wealthy grown For nothing good, I’d turn Rebellious Whig,
Pull e’ery Monarch headlong from his Throne, And with the Prince of Darkness make a League,
That he and I, and all the Whigs beside,
Might rend down Churches, Crowns in pieces tare, Exert our Malice, gratify our Pride,
And settle Satan’s Kingdom e’erywhere.
William Collins (1721–1759)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Ode to Fear
Strophe:
Thou, to whom the world unknown With all its shadowy shapes is shown; Who see’st appalled the unreal scene, While Fancy lifts the veil between:
Ah Fear! Ah frantic Fear! I see, I see thee near.
I know thy hurried step, thy haggard eye! Like thee I start, like thee disordered fly. For lo, what monsters in thy train appear! Danger, whose limbs of giant mould What mortal eye can fixed behold?
Who stalks his round, an hideous form, Howling amidst the midnight storm, Or throws him on the ridgy steep
Of some loose hanging rock to sleep;
And with him thousand phantoms joined, Who prompt to deeds accursed the mind; And those, the fiends who, near allied, O’er nature’s wounds and wrecks preside; Whilst Vengeance in the lurid air
Lifts her red arm, exposed and bare, On whom that ravening brood of fate, Who lap the blood of sorrow, wait; Who, Fear, this ghastly train can see, And look not madly wild like thee?
Christopher Smart (1722–1771)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Hymn to the Supreme Being, on Recovery from a Dangerous Fit of Illness
To DOCTOR JAMES
I
When
Israel’s ruler on the royal bed
In anguish and in perturbation lay, The down reliev’d not his anointed head,
And rest gave place to horror and dismay.
Fast flow’d the tears, high heav’d each gasping sigh
When God’s own prophet thunder’d—MONARCH, THOU MUST DIE.
II
And must I go, th’illustrious mourner cry’d,
I who have serv’d thee still in faith and truth, Whose snow-white conscience no foul crime has died
From youth to manhood, infancy to youth, Like David, who have still rever’d thy word
The sovereign of myself and servant of the Lord!
III
The judge Almighty heard his suppliant’s moan, Repeal’d his sentence, and his health restor’d;
The beams of mercy on his temples shone,
Shot from that heaven to which his sighs had soar’d; The sun retreated at his maker’s nod
And miracles confirm the genuine work of God.
IV
But, O immortals! What had I to plead
When death stood o’er me with his threat’ning lance,
Thomas Warton (1728–1790)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
from “The Pleasures of Melancholy”
Mother of musings, Contemplation sage, Whose grotto stands upon the topmost rock Of Teneriff: ‘mid the tempestuous night,
On which, in calmest meditation held,
Thou hear’st with howling winds the beating rain And drifting hail descend; or if the skies Unclouded shine, and thro’ the blue serene
Pale Cynthia rolls her silver-axled car, Whence gazing stedfast on the spangled vault Raptur’d thou sit’st, while murmurs indistinct Of distant billows sooth thy pensive ear
With hoarse and hollow sounds; secure, self-blest, There oft thou listen’st to the wild uproar
Of fleets encount’ring, that in whispers low Ascends the rocky summit, where thou dwell’st Remote from man, conversing with the spheres! O lead me, queen sublime, to solemn glooms Congenial with my soul; to cheerless shades,
To ruin’d seats, or twilight cells and bow’rs, Where thoughtful Melancholy loves to muse,
Her fav’rite midnight haunts. The laughing scenes Of purple Spring, where all the wanton train
Of Smiles and Graces seem to lead the dance
In sportive round, while from their hands they show’r Ambrosial blooms and flow’rs, no longer charm; Tempe, no more I court thy balmy breeze,
Adieu green vales! ye broider’d meads, adieu!
Thro’ Pope’s soft song tho’ all the Graces breathe, And happiest art adorn his Attic page;
Yet does my mind with sweeter transport glow, As at the root of mossy trunk reclin’d,
Alfred Tennyson (1809–1892)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
from “In Memoriam”
III
O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,
O Priestess in the vaults of Death, O sweet and bitter in a breath,
What whispers from thy lying lip?
“The stars,” she whispers, “blindly run; A web is wov’n across the sky;
From out waste places comes a cry, And murmurs from the dying sun:
“And all the phantom, Nature, stands— With all the music in her tone,
A hollow echo of my own,—
A hollow form with empty hands.”
And shall I take a thing so blind, Embrace her as my natural good; Or crush her, like a vice of blood,
Upon the threshold of the mind?
IV
To Sleep I give my powers away; My will is bondsman to the dark; I sit within a helmless bark,
And with my heart I muse and say:
O heart, how fares it with thee now,
That thou should’st fail from thy desire, Who scarcely darest to inquire,
“What is it makes me beat so low?”
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844–1889) “No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief”
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
“No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief”
No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief, More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring. Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief ?
My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing— Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked ‘No lingering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief.’
O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap May who ne’er hung there. Nor does long our small Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep, Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.
Carrion Comfort
Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be. But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
Ernest Dowson (1867–1900)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
To One in Bedlam
With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars, Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine; Those scentless wisps of straw, that miserably line
His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares,
Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars
With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchanted wine, And make his melancholy germane to the stars?
O lamentable brother! if those pity thee,
Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me;
Half a fool’s kingdom, far from men who sow and reap, All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers,
Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep, The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!
Spleen
I was not sorrowful, I could not weep, And all my memories were put to sleep.
I watched the river grow more white and strange, All day till evening I watched it change.
All day till evening I watched the rain Beat wearily upon the window pane
Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Repression of War Experience
Now light the candles; one; two; there’s a moth; What silly beggars they are to blunder in
And scorch their wings with glory, liquid flame— No, no, not that,—it’s bad to think of war,
When thoughts you’ve gagged all day come back to scare you; And it’s been proved that soldiers don’t go mad
Unless they lose control of ugly thoughts
That drive them out to jabber among the trees.
Now light your pipe; look, what a steady hand. Draw a deep breath; stop thinking; count fifteen, And you’re as right as rain . . .
Why won’t it rain? . . .
I wish there’d be a thunder-storm to-night, With bucketsful of water to sluice the dark, And make the roses hang their dripping heads. Books; what a jolly company they are, Standing so quiet and patient on their shelves,
Dressed in dim brown, and black, and white, and green, And every kind of colour. Which will you read?
Come on; O do read something; they’re so wise. I tell you all the wisdom of the world
Is waiting for you on those shelves; and yet
You sit and gnaw your nails, and let your pipe out, And listen to the silence: on the ceiling
There’s one big, dizzy moth that bumps and flutters; And in the breathless air outside the house
The garden waits for something that delays.
There must be crowds of ghosts among the trees,— Not people killed in battle,—they’re in France,— But horrible shapes in shrouds—old men who died Slow, natural deaths,—old men with ugly souls, Who wore their bodies out with nasty sins.
Ivor Gurney (1890–1937)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Strange Hells
There are strange hells within the minds war made Not so often, not so humiliatingly afraid
As one would have expected—the racket and fear guns made. One hell the Gloucester soldiers they quite put out:
Their first bombardment, when in combined black shout
Of fury, guns aligned, they ducked lower their heads And sang with diaphragms fixed beyond all dreads, That tin and stretched-wire tinkle, that blither of tune: ‘Après la guerre fini,’ till hell all had come down,
Twelve-inch, six-inch, and eighteen pounders hammering hell’s thunders.
Where are they now, on state-doles, or showing shop-patterns Or walking town to town sore in borrowed tatterns
Or begged. Some civic routine one never learns.
The heart burns—but has to keep out of face how heart burns.
The Shame
If the pain I suffer were of the Devil enemy of man
It might pass, might be proper, but from man’s self, O the black shame
Of torture, when, as some think, so easy were the plan Of kind life; but this is dreadfulness beyond name.
Louise Bogan (1897–1970)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Evening in the Sanitarium
The free evening fades, outside the windows fastened with decorative iron grilles.
The lamps are lighted; the shades drawn; the nurses are watching a little.
It is the hour of the complicated knitting on the safe bone needles; of the games of anagrams and bridge;
The deadly game of chess; the book held up like a mask.
The period of the wildest weeping, the fiercest delusion, is over.
The women rest their tired half-healed hearts; they are almost well.
Some of them will stay almost well always: the blunt-faced woman whose thinking dissolved
Under academic discipline; the manic-depressive girl Now leveling off; one paranoiac affl icted with jealousy.
Another with persecution. Some alleviation has been possible.
O fortunate bride, who never again will become elated after childbirth!
O lucky older wife, who has been cured of feeling unwanted!
To the suburban railway station you will return, return, To meet forever Jim home on the 5:35.
You will be again as normal and selfish and heartless as anybody else.
There is life left: the piano says it with its octave smile.
The soft carpets pad the thump and splinter of the suicide to be.
Everything will be splendid: the grandmother will not drink habitually.
(John Orley) Allen Tate (1899–1979)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Ode to Fear
Let the day glare: O memory, your tread Beats to the pulse of suffocating night— Night peering from his dark but fire-lit head Burns on the day his tense and secret light.
Now they dare not to gloss your savage dream,
O beast of the heart, those saints who cursed your name; You are the current of the frozen stream,
Shadow invisible, ambushed and vigilant flame.
My eldest companion present in solitude,
Watch-dog of Thebes when the blind hero strove: You, omniscient, at the cross-roads stood
When Laius, the slain dotard, drenched the grove.
Now to the eye of prophecy immune, Fading and harried, you stalk us in the street From the recesses of the August noon,
Alert world over, crouched on the air’s feet.
You are our surety to immortal life, God’s hatred of the universal stain— The heritage, O Fear, of ancient strife
Compounded with the tissue of the vein.
And I when all is said have seen your form Most agile and most treacherous to the world When, on a child’s long day, a dry storm Burst on the cedars, lit by the sun and hurled!
Anonymous (published 1930)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
from “Thoughts Suggested on a Thanksgiving Day Passed at the State Lunatic Asylum, Worcester, Mass., by a Patient”
Hark! ‘tis the chapel bell!—its lively peal,
At early morn, wakes, from their slumbering beds, The various members of this household band.
Forth to their several duties, each they hie—
The faithful “Nurse,” with beaming lamp in hand, The healing potion from the “doctor” bears; Which being administered, she speeds to arrange, In order due, the frugal meal.—Meanwhile,
As, careful of her trust, she goes from room
To room, to inquire the health, each little want To learn, the pleasant “Supervisor’s” voice
Is heard.—The worthy “Steward” too, whose care Unwearied, and whose generous deeds, have won Him many a well deserved epithet
Of fame, himself betakes the building o’er
T’ survey.—The clock strikes seven: the signal’s given, And now, with hair adjusted, person washed,
In neat attire, behold th’ assembled group Around the well set board; the pleasant word ‘s
Exchanged; the thoughts of many homeward turn, Which utterance find in words of sad regret
At separation thus from those they love, And in whose blest society they oft,
On day like this have swelled the thankful song. Some cheerful, happy, look; while other some, In listless reverie, seem mindful scarce
Of aught.—All now is life;—the breakfast o’er,
The cloth’s removed, while brooms and brushes quick Are plied, to sweep the gathered dust, t’ restore
That perfect neatness, which is wont to reign Within these walls. Here order, in its prime, Presides, system complete, that which could be
Elizabeth Bishop (1911–1979)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Visits to Saint Elizabeths
This is the house of Bedlam.
This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the time of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a wristwatch telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is a sailor wearing the watch that tells the time of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
This is the roadstead all of board reached by the sailor
wearing the watch that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
These are the years and the walls of the ward, the winds and clouds of the sea of board sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch that tells the time of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
J. V. (James Vincent) Cunningham (1911–1985)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
from Interview with Doctor Drink
I have a fifth of therapy
In the house, and transference there. Doctor, there’s not much wrong with me, Only a sick rattlesnake somewhere
In the house, if it be there at all,
But the lithe mouth is coiled. The shapes Of door and window move. I call.
What is it that pulls down the drapes,
Disheveled and exposed? Your rye Twists in my throat: intimacy
Is like hard liquor. Who but I
Coil there and squat, and pay your fee?
Randall Jarrell (1914–1965)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
In the Ward: The Sacred Wood
The trees rise from the darkness of the world. The little trees, the paper grove,
Stand woodenly, a sigh of earth, Upon the table by this bed of life Where I have lain so long: until at last I find a Maker for them, and forget
Who cut them from their cardboard, brushed A bird on each dark, fretted bough.
But the birds think and are still.
The thunder mutters to them from the hills My knees make by the rainless Garden.
If the grove trembles with the fan
And makes, at last, its little flapping song That wanders to me over the white flood On which I float enchanted—shall I fall? A bat jerks to me from the ragged limb And hops across my shudder with its leaf Of curling paper: have the waters gone?
Is the nurse damned who looked on my nakedness? The sheets stretch like the wilderness
Up which my fingers wander, the sick tribes, To a match’s flare, a rain or bush of fire Through which the devil trudges, coal by coal, With all his goods; and I look absently
And am not tempted.
Death scratches feebly at this husk of life In which I lie unchanging, Sin despairs Of my dull works; and I am patient . . .
A third of all the angels, in the wars
Of God against the Angel, took no part And were to God’s will neither enemies Nor followers, but lay in doubt:
but lie in doubt.
Howard Nemerov (1920–1991)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
To D——, Dead by Her Own Hand
My dear, I wonder if before the end
You ever thought about a children’s game— I’m sure you must have played it too—in which You ran along a narrow garden wall
Pretending it to be a mountain ledge So steep a snowy darkness fell away On either side to deeps invisible;
And when you felt your balance being lost
You jumped because you feared to fall, and thought For only an instant: that was when I died.
That was a life ago. And now you’ve gone,
Who would no longer play the grown-ups’ game Where, balanced on the ledge above the dark, You go on running and don’t look down,
Nor ever jump because you fear to fall.
Anthony Hecht (1923–2004)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
A Deep Breath at Dawn
Morning has come at last. The rational light Discovers even the humblest thing that yearns For heaven; from its scaled and shadeless height, Figures its difficult way among the ferns,
Nests in the trees, and is ambitious to warm The chilled vein, and to light the spider’s thread With modulations hastening to a storm
Of the full spectrum, rushing from red to red.
I have watched its refinements since the dawn, When, at the birdcall, all the ghosts were gone.
The wolf, the fig tree, and the woodpecker Were sacred once to Undertaker Mars;
Honor was done in Rome to that home-wrecker Whose armor and whose ancient, toughened scars Made dance the very meat of Venus’ heart,
And hot her ichor, and immense her eyes, Till his rough ways and her invincible art
Locked and laid low their shining, tangled thighs. My garden yields his fig tree, even now
Bearing heraldic fruit at every bough.
Someone I have not seen for six full years
Might pass this garden through, and might pass by The oleander bush, the bitter pears
Unfinished by the sun, with only an eye For the sun-speckled shade of the fig tree, And shelter in its gloom, and raise his hand For tribute and for nourishment (for he Was once entirely at the god’s command) But that his nature, being all undone, Cannot abide the clarity of the sun.