bluuebunny/crossref_metadata_2025_split huggingface dataset:
John Keats (1795–1821)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Ode on Melancholy
No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine; Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine; Make not your rosary of yew-berries, Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily, And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave, Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows, Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave, And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die; And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh, Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips; Ay, in the very temple of delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might, And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
Thomas Haynes Bayly (1797–1839)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
“I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!”
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!
I’ve bent beneath sorrow’s cold pressure too long. I’ve suffered in silence; how vainly I sought
For words to unburthen the anguish of thought; Despair haunts the silent endurance of wrong
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!
I welcome thee back as the Dove to the Ark: The world was a desert, the future all dark;
But I know that the worst of the storm must be past, Thou art come with the green leaf of comfort at last. Around me thy radiant imagining throng,
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!
I feared thee, sweet Spirit! I thought thou would’st come With memory’s records of boyhood and home;
The home where I laughed away youth, and was told It would still be my dwelling place when I grew old; But visions of hope to thy coming belong,
I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!
Thou wilt not, sweet Spirit! thou wilt not, I know, Mislead to the fruitless indulgence of woe,
That shrinks from the smile that would offer relief, And seems to be proud of pre-eminent grief— Thou’lt soothe the depression already too strong: I welcome thee back again, Spirit of Song!
There’s a chord that I never must venture to wake, The sorrow a loved one hath borne for my sake;
But her love, which no change in my fortunes could chill, Her smile of affection that follows me still,
Matthew Arnold (1822–1888)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
from “Empedocles on Etna”
Callicles:
But oh! Pausanias, he is changed of late; There is a settled trouble in his air Admits no momentary brightening now,
And when he comes among his friends at feasts, ‘Tis as an orphan among prosperous boys.
Thou know’st of old he loved this harp of mine, When first he sojourned with Peisianax;
He is now always moody, and I fear him;
But I would serve him, soothe him, if I could, Dared one but try.
Empedocles: And lie thou there, My laurel bough!
Scornful Apollo’s ensign, lie thou there!
Though thou hast been my shade in the world’s heat, Though I have loved thee, lived in honoring thee,
Yet lie thou there, My laurel bough!
I am weary of thee.
I am weary of the solitude
Where he who bears thee must abide,— Of the rocks of Parnassus,
Of the gorge of Delphi,
Of the moonlit peaks, and the caves. Thou guardest them, Apollo!
Over the grave of the slain Pytho, Though young, intolerably severe! Thou keepest aloof the profane,
Sydney Dobell (1824–1874)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
from “Balder. Part The First,” Scenes XIII & XIV
Happier to drive
The patient ass along the beaten way, Laden with humble fruits to the set mart Of fixed reward, and back to certain rest,
And sweet assured possession, than like me Bound helpless on the fury of the winds,
To scour the plains I seek not, scale the height Where my brain swims, and leap, as in a dream, Down into the unfathomable void,
While from the fall—like my back-streaming hair— Fear-blown in all my veins the blood streams back, And faints with horror.
I that am called proud, Lying most humbly weary and abject
On the immoveable earth that doth so please This mortal frame, and seeing my dull race Doing their easy pleasures to and fro,
Self-ordinate, could sometimes sell my birth-right For any pottage that would feed the flesh
Of other men upon me.
Death, Death, Death!
I have seen every face but thine to-day!
And to behold thee, from sunrise till now, How have I strained these eyeballs
The fourth time the strong silence in the cell Was as the straining silence of the rack,
When the still-tightening torture wrenches him Who will not speak. The great veins in my brow
Thomas Hardy (1840–1928)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Just the Same
I sat. It all was past;
Hope never would hail again; Fair days had ceased at a blast, The world was a darkened den.
The beauty and dream were gone, And the halo in which I had hied So gaily gallantly on
Had suffered blot and died!
I went forth, heedless whither, In a cloud too black for name:
—People frisked hither and thither; The world was just the same.
The Wound
I climbed to the crest, And, fog-festooned,
The sun lay west
Like a crimson wound:
Like that wound of mine Of which none knew,
For I’d given no sign
That it pierced me through.
Wilfred Owen (1893–1918)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Mental Cases
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight? Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows, Drooping tongues from jays that slob their relish, Baring teeth that leer like skulls’ teeth wicked?
Stroke on stroke of pain,—but what slow panic, Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets? Ever from their hair and through their hands’ palms Misery swelters. Surely we have perished
Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?
—These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished. Memory fingers in their hair of murders, Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander, Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter. Always they must see these things and hear them, Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles, Carnage incomparable, and human squander Rucked too thick for these men’s extrication.
Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented Back into their brains, because on their sense
Sunlight seems a blood-smear; night comes blood-black; Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh.
—Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous, Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.
—Thus their hands are plucking at each other; Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging; Snatching after us who smote them, brother, Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.
John Berryman (1914–1972)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Dreamsongs 172
Your face broods from my table, Suicide.
Your force came on like a torrent toward the end of agony and wrath.
You were christened in the beginning Sylvia Plath and changed that name for Mrs Hughes and bred and went on round the bend
till the oven seemed the proper place for you. I brood upon your face, the geography of grief, hooded, till I allow
again your resignation from us now
though the screams of orphaned children fix me anew. Your torment here was brief,
long falls your exit all repeatingly,
a poor exemplum, one more suicide, to stack upon the others
till stricken Henry with his sisters & brothers suddenly gone pauses to wonder why he alone breasts the wronging tide.
Weldon Kees (1914–1955)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
from “The Fall of the Magicians”
No sound except the beating of a drum Is heard along this walled-in corridor.
“Time will go by,” we heard; “no messages will come.”
The guests seem sad without their opium. They stare at me and talk about the war.
There is not sound except the beating of a drum.
They want a different noise; like me, they thumb Through heavy books we keep behind the door. “Time will go by,” we heard; “no messages will come.”
Noise with complexity, however glum,
Might give some clue to what there is in store,
But there’s no sound except the beating of a drum.
A few wear beards, or sleep all day, while some
Have grown quite philosophical. Some pace the floor. “Time will go by,” we heard; “no messages will come.”
I think it is our hearts. Each paralyzed and numb With waiting. Yet what is it we are waiting for?
No sound except the beating of a drum?
“Time will go by,” we heard. “No messages will come.”
Robert Lowell (1917–1977)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Visitors
To no good
they enter at angles and on the run— two black verticals are suddenly four ambulance drivers in blue serge,
or the police doing double-duty.
They comb our intimate, messy bedroom, scrutinize worksheets
illegible with second-thoughts, then shed them in their stride,
as if they owned the room. They do. They crowd me and scatter—inspecting my cast-off clothes for clues?
They are fat beyond the call of duty— with jocose civility,
they laugh at everything I say: “Yesterday I was thirty-two, a threat
to the establishment because I was young.”
The bored woman sergeant
is amused by the tiger-toothed samurai grinning on a Japanese hanging—
“What would it cost? Where could I buy one?”
I can see through the moonlit dark; on the grassy London square, black cows ruminate in uniform, lowing routinely like a chainsaw.
My visitors are good beef, they too make one falsely feel the earth is solid,
as they hurry to secretly telephone
from their ambulance. Click, click, click, goes the red, blue, and white light burning with aristocratic negligence— so much busywork.
Hayden Carruth (1921– )
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
from “The Asylum”
1
I came to this place one November day. Mauve walls rose up then tranquilly, and still Must rise to wind-burned eyes that way— Old brickwork on a hill,
Surfaces of impunity beneath a gray And listed sky. Yet I could read dismay There rightward in a twisted beech
Whose nineteen leaves were glittering, each A tear in a rigid eye caught in the pale
Deep-pouring wind. Now these walls Are thin against the dense insistent gale,
No good when the wind talks in our halls, Useless at night when these high window bars
Catch every whisper of wind that comes and falls, Speaking, across my catacomb of stars.
4
I hurt. Hungrier flowers try my rank ground. Indelible, one drifts across Japan,
Rooted as if its stem were wound Into the heart of a man.
A crumpling sky, a blurted dawn—the sound Of history burst the years and history drowned. We lived. An aftersilence fell
Like a wave flooding the plains of hell,
For what word matters? Pity? Shame? The roots Try my breast-cage, my bone
Gleams in the rot. I hear you, sir, cahoots Calling from many a dolmen stone, Murther, murther! Come on then, jacket me,
Stuart Z. Perkoff (1930–1974)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
from “The Venice Poems, I”
4.
spring & summer months of magic
from venice to new york a letter:
dear david/
monday, july 9, 1956
suzan desperate after
weeks of struggle with
what was a terrifying combination of
numinous paranoid insightful
pressures
& pressures
entered,with a glad relief &,
(on my part also
prayer
the general hospital psychiatric unit
where she is now
where i go to see her again today
where all my hope & agony are now entombed
Sylvia Plath (1932–1963)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Elm
I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.
Is it the sea you hear in me, Its dissatisfactions?
Or he voice of nothing, that was your madness?
Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.
All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf, Echoing, echoing.
Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons? This is rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.
I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets. Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.
Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs. A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.
The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.
From The Journal Of Saint Dympna (Earl “Pete” Nurmi, Editor) (Published 1979)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
I took a white cogentin
And a yellow thorazine
I took a demi-dixie-cup
Of water in between.
I took a white cogentin
And a yellow thorazine,
I think they tried to help us keep
From the things we’d seen.
Medication, medication, medication’
It is so good for you,
It is so good for the nation.
No more sadness
And no more elation!
Medication, medication, medication
I took a white cogentin
And a yellow thorazine,
I took a demi-dixie-cup
Of water in between,
I knew Napoleon of France
I knew sweet Joan of Arc,
I knew a man who walked his dog,
But it would not bark.
Medication, medication, medication’
So good for you,
So good for the nation.
Jim Harrison (1937– )
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Noon
Spring: despondency, fall: despair,
onset of winter
a light rain in the heart
the pony tethered to the telephone pole day after day until he’s eaten the circle, moved to another pole, another circle: winter never deepens but falls dead upon the ground, body of the sky whirled
in gray gusts:
from Manitoba stretched brains of north; heat for heart, head, in smallest things—dry socks,
strange breasts, an ounce of sun glittering above the blue shadows of the barn.
Sequence I
The mad have black roots in their brains around which vessels clot and embrace each other as mating snakes.
The roots feed on the brain until the brain is all root—now the brain is gray
and suffocates in its own folds.
Les Murray (1938– )
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
from Fredy Neptune, Book I
Now Turkey was in, and Russia’s last trade lifeline blocked
so she would rot. It was all we’d come to do, I worked out later. We idled and dressed ship round the City and Black Sea playing skat, eating goulash.
When Gallipoli came, I thought: I will desert if I have to fight Australians. But instead
my mates and I, on shore leave up by Trabzon
at last saw women with their faces unwrapped in the open.
They were huddling, terrified, crying.
crossing themselves, in the middle of men all yelling.
Their big loose dresses were sopping. Kerosene, you could smell it. The men were prancing, feeling them, poking at them to dance— then pouf! they were alight, the women, dark wicks to great
orange flames,
whopping and shrieking. If we’d had rifles there
we’d have massacred those bastards. We had only fists and boots. One woman did cuddle a man: he went up screaming too.
The first time I slipped up badly was on that voyage.
We had a deck galley. The cook, a different cook, he was a drunk and the fire had been doused, in dirty weather. The boy was
relighting it
with kerosene, and it blew out and caught his clothes.
He was screaming blind when I reached him, half the galley alight too
and when I got him put out I didn’t notice
I had caught, here, all up my calf, you can see it.
They took the boy out, and there I’m tidying up, still burning.
Aimee Grunberger m(1951–1995)
Authors: Bauer Mark S 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
The Administration of Veterans
I just saw him, had to slow way down to be sure. Whatever the opposite of remission is, this was it. He stood there, an urban Robinson Crusoe,
sunburnt, barefoot, shirt in tatters, hair and beard electrified, drinking the dregs of coffee cups at a sidewalk café.
Jabbing a finger in the air, giving the finger to City Hall to the bank that calls itself Citizens’
to the boarded-up Union Station, stranded on a trackless railbed. He was keening in almost-Gaelic.
It might have been the wake of Parnell.
I remember how he once inspired the other vets. So clean and sober in a borrowed jacket and tie, prim as a bondbroker and full of jittery pride.
As long as Haldol kept the neural juices from scorching his brain like lye,
he remained my prize patient. My success story.
Before he took off, signed himself out as the shifts were changing,
he slipped this message under my office door:
Dogs no longer bark at me. In my handbook, this state is referred to as bliss.
But my time here is short.
I’m aging faster now, burning up along the primitive circuitry.
Already older than
my mother and father put together, and with so much
work left for me to do.
The Human Use of Animals
Authors: Beauchamp Tom L , Orlans F Barbara , Dresser Rebecca , Morton David B , Gluck John P 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
The Human Use of Animals presents case studies that look at the practical and ethical issues arising from the human use of animals. The case studies report the facts about some of the most compelling and difficult issues that confront society today in the human use of animals. Each case study combines the facts of the case with analysis of ethical issues.
David Brown
Authors: Scanlon Jennifer 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
Through her late twenties and early thirties, and assisted by her single and married friends, Helen Gurley dated widely, keeping a sharp eye on the pool of eligible bachelors in Los Angeles. By thirty-five, she determined she was ready not just for another affair but, she hoped, for a long-term commitment. But while age may have compromised her embrace of single life, by no means had it compromised her desire or determination to marry someone of substance. She considered only men of means, successful men, and stayed clear of “ordinary men [she] might have to help support” along with her family. One morning, as she walked for exercise with her friend Ruth Shandorf, Gurley listened intently as her companion described David Brown, a film studio executive and former New Yorker. Shandorf explained that Brown’s second marriage had recently ended and that he was “on the market,” and Gurley felt an immediate compatibility, not simply for an affair but for marriage: “It wasn’t love at first sight for me. It was love before first sight. I had fallen in love with his credentials.
Sex and the Single Girl
Authors: Scanlon Jennifer 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
At the 2001 opening of the Prada flagship store in Manhattan, Candace Bushnell announced to the press,”If you want to know the truth about it, I’m hoping to get laid tonight.” She made visible, in what seemed her singularly radical and direct manner, the enormous sexual agency single women of her generation exercised in New York City. A newspaper columnist, Bushnell had published a collection of her popular columns as Sex and the City, and HBO purchased and then masterfully transformed the book into what became an overnight sensation. The series ran from 1998 to 2004 and echoed the aspirations and frustrations of millions of single women intent on experiencing sexuality on their own terms. After six seasons, viewers blogged and wept their way through the final episodes, intent on continuing to exercise the permission the series gave them to stay single in style.
Normal Like Me: The Single Girl on Television
Authors: Scanlon Jennifer 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
In 1970 CBS introduced The Mary Tyler Moore Show and with it, television’s first independent career woman. “The world is awfully big,” Sonny Curtis sang as the show opened, “and girl, this time you’re all alone.” By the time The Mary Tyler Moore Show had entered its second season, the opening lyrics had been changed from the tentative, “You might just make it after all,” to the confident, “You’re gonna make it after all.” This not so subtle shift reflected the producers’ confidence that their character, Mary Richards, the first independent single female lead of a situation comedy, would actually make it on her own in urban Minneapolis. The more assertive lyrics also reflected a shift in the American viewing public, which, long resistant to televisual images of female independence, had truly embraced rather than simply tolerated this representation of womanhood.
Sexual Liberation On Whose Terms?: Defining The Second Wave
Authors: Scanlon Jennifer 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
When most other feminists considered Helen Gurley Brown at all, they found her brand of liberation vexing. For one thing, she was an enormous proponent of the free market. Implicit in much feminist ideology and prominent within most women’s liberation groups was a critique of the ways in which capitalism bolstered male supremacy. Employers offered women fewer opportunities than it offered men and paid women less than men because they continued to define women as domestic beings tied to the private rather than the public world. And women’s continued dependency was more or less guaranteed in a world in which the wheels of industry depended on complementary unpaid labor, virtually all of that female, in the home. Confronting these realities, many feminists perceived capitalism as an impediment rather than an ally in their quest for equality. A lifelong proponent of the free market, however, Helen Gurley Brown would prove loath to attack with too much venom the very system that had ensured not simply her visibility but her very viability as a single woman in pre- and postwar America.
Introduction to Southern Road (1932)
Authors: Johnson James Weldon 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
In any inquiry regarding the important developments that have taken place in American Negro life within the past decade, I should at once cite the degree of ascendancy reached by the Negro artist, especially the Negro writer, as one of the most significant and vital. The record of the Negro’s efforts in literature goes back a long way, cover- ing a period of more than a century and a half, but it is only within the past ten years that America as a whole has been made consciously aware of the Negro as a literary artist. It is only within that brief time that Negro writers have ceased to be regarded as isolated cases of exceptional, perhaps accidental ability, and have gained group recognition. It is only within these few years that the arbiters of American letters have begun to assay the work of these writers by the general literary standards and accord it such appraisal as it might merit.
The Call of the Wood as a Prelude to Treaty
Authors: Velde Lea Vander 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
In the 1830s, great primal forests of tall white pine timber situated along Lake Superior’s southern coast in Wisconsin territory were an even more significant natural resource to the nation than lead or furs. These white pine forests no longer exist, but in the 1830s the fate of national expansion depended on them and their fate was to be decided by a treaty at St. Peter’s.
A New Baby in a New Land
Authors: Velde Lea Vander 
Published: November 2023

Abstract
The significant personal change for Harriet and Dred was that now they held a new baby in their arms. They had a new mistress, a new bride who surely gazed up at the impressive stone fort, as all newcomers did, a fort that would be her new home for the next two years. The freedman Jim Thompson met the steamboat at the dock, sent by Agent Taliaferro with a message for the Methodist missionary. The freedman had worked at the agency during the Reverend Brunson’s absence. Jim Thompson may have been baby Eliza’s first visitor. Who could fail to be charmed by a tiny baby and her proud parents? Jim’s Dakota wife had also recently had another baby. Blessed by the dockside visit of the lucky freed man, the new parents carried baby Eliza onto snow-blanketed, solid ground to her new home in free territory.