DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Incantation In Oedipus.
by John Dryden

TIR. Choose the darkest part o' th' grove,
Such as ghosts at noonday love.
Dig a trench, and dig it nigh
Where the bones of Laius lie;
Altars raised, of turf or stone,
Will th' infernal powers have none,
Answer me, if this be done?
ALL PR. 'Tis done.
TIR. Is the sacrifice made fit?
Draw her backward to the pit:
Draw the barren heifer back;
Barren let her be, and black.
Cut the curl'd hair that grows
Full betwixt her horns and brows:
And turn your faces from the sun,
Answer me, if this be done?
ALL PR. 'Tis done.
TIR. Pour in blood, and blood-like wine,
To Mother Earth and Proserpine:
Mingle milk into the stream;
Feast the ghosts that love the steam:
Snatch a brand from funeral pile:
Toss it in to make them boil;
And turn your faces from the sun,
Answer me, if this be done?
ALL PR. 'Tis done.
O'Connell's Statue.
by Thomas Osborne Davis

Lines To Hogan.
Chisel the likeness of The Chief,
Not in gaiety, nor grief;
Change not by your art to stone,
Ireland's laugh, or Ireland's moan.
Dark her tale, and none can tell
Its fearful chronicle so well.
Her frame is bent--her wounds are deep--
Who, like him, her woes can weep?
He can be gentle as a bride,
While none can rule with kinglier pride;
Calm to hear, and wise to prove,
Yet gay as lark in soaring love.
Well it were, posterity
Should have some image of his glee;
That easy humour, blossoming
Like the thousand flowers of spring!
Glorious the marble which could show
His bursting sympathy for woe:
Could catch the pathos, flowing wild,
Like mother's milk to craving child.
And oh! how princely were the art
Could mould his mien, or tell his heart
When sitting sole on Tara's hill,
While hung a million on his will!
Yet, not in gaiety, nor grief,
Chisel the image of our Chief,
Nor even in that haughty hour
When a nation owned his power.
But would you by your art unroll
His own, and Ireland's secret soul,
And give to other times to scan
The greatest greatness of the man?
Fierce defiance let him be
Hurling at our enemy--
From a base as fair and sure
As our love is true and pure;
Let his statue rise as tall
And firm as a castle wall;
On his broad brow let there be
A type of Ireland's history;
Pious, generous, deep and warm,
Strong and changeful as a storm;
Let whole centuries of wrong
Upon his recollection throng--
Strongbow's force, and Henry's wile,
Tudor's wrath, and Stuart's guile,
And iron Strafford's tiger jaws,
And brutal Brunswick's penal laws;
Not forgetting Saxon faith,
Not forgetting Norman scath,
Not forgetting William's word,
Not forgetting Cromwell's sword.
Let the Union's fetter vile--
The shame and ruin of our isle--
Let the blood of 'Ninety-Eight
And our present blighting fate--
Let the poor mechanic's lot,
And the peasant's ruined cot,
Plundered wealth and glory flown,
Ancient honours overthrown--
Let trampled altar, rifled urn,
Knit his look to purpose stern.
Mould all this into one thought,
Like wizard cloud with thunder fraught;
Still let our glories through it gleam,
Like fair flowers through a flooded stream,
Or like a flashing wave at night,
Bright,--'mid the solemn darkness, bright.
Let the memory of old days
Shine through the statesman's anxious face--
Dathi's power, and Brian's fame,
And headlong Sarsfield's sword of flame;
And the spirit of Red Hugh,
And the pride of 'Eighty-Two,
And the victories he won,
And the hope that leads him on!
Let whole armies seem to fly
From his threatening hand and eye.
Be the strength of all the land
Like a falchion in his hand,
And be his gesture sternly grand.
A braggart tyrant swore to smite
A people struggling for their right;
O'Connell dared him to the field,
Content to die but never yield;
Fancy such a soul as his,
In a moment such as this,
Like cataract, or foaming tide,
Or army charging in its pride.
Thus he spoke, and thus he stood,
Proffering in our cause his blood.
Thus his country loves him best--
To image this is your behest.
Chisel thus, and thus alone,
If to man you'd change the stone.
Christ At The Bar
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Christ stands at the bar of the world to-day,
As He stood in the days of old.
And still, as then, we do betray
Our Lord for greed of gold.
When our every deed and word and thought
Should our fealty proclaim,
Full oft we bring His name to nought
And cover Him with shame.
Not alone did Judas his Master sell,
Nor Peter his Lord deny,
Each one who doth His love repel,
Or at His guidance doth rebel,
Doth the Lord Christ crucify.
Like the men of old, we vote His death,
Lest His life should interfere
With the things we have, or the things we crave,
Or the things we hold more dear.
Christ stands at the bar of the world to-day,
As He stood in the days of old.
Let each man tax his soul and say,--
"Shall I again my Lord betray
For my greed, or my goods, or my gold?"
Rondelay.
by John Dryden

Chloe found Amyntas lying,
All in tears upon the plain;
Sighing to himself, and crying,
Wretched I, to love in vain!
Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain!
Sighing to himself, and crying,
Wretched I, to love in vain!
Ever scorning and denying
To reward your faithful swain:
Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain:
Ever scorning, and denying
To reward your faithful swain:
Chloe, laughing at his crying,
Told him, that he loved in vain:
Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
Kiss me once, and ease my pain!
Chloe, laughing at his crying,
Told him, that he loved in vain:
But repenting, and complying,
When he kiss'd, she kiss'd again:
Kiss'd him up before his dying;
Kiss'd him up, and eased his pain.
The Crab That Played With The Sea
by Rudyard Kipling

China-going P. & O.'s
Pass Pau Amma's playground close,
And his Pusat Tasek lies
Near the track of most B.I.'s.
N.Y.K. and N.D.L.
Know Pau Amma's home as well
As the Fisher of the Sea knows
"Bens," M.M.'s and Rubattinos.
But (and this is rather queer)
A.T.L.'s can qiot come here;
O. and O. and D.O.A.
Must go round another way.
Orient, Anchor, Bibby, Hall,
Never go that way at all.
U.C.S. would have a fit
If it found itself on it.
And if "Beavers" took their cargoes
To Penang instead of Lagos,
Or a fat Shaw-Savill bore
Passengers to Singapore,
Or a White Star were to try a
Little trip to Sourabaya,
Or a B.S.A. went on
Past Natal to Cheribon,
The the great Mr. Lloyds would come
With a wire and drag them home!
.    .     .     .    .
You will know what my riddle means
When you've eaten mangosteens.
Chloris Properly Rebuked
by Eugene Field

Chloris, my friend, I pray you your misconduct to forswear;
The wife of poor old Ibycus should have more savoir faire.
A woman at your time of life, and drawing near death's door,
Should not play with the girly girls, and think she's en rapport.
What's good enough for Pholoe you cannot well essay;
Your daughter very properly courts the jeunesse dor'e,--
A Thyiad, who, when timbrel beats, cannot her joy restrain,
But plays the kid, and laughs and giggles ' l'Am'ricaine.
'T is more becoming, Madame, in a creature old and poor,
To sit and spin than to engage in an affaire d'amour.
The lutes, the roses, and the wine drained deep are not for you;
Remember what the poet says: Ce monde est plein de fous!
Poem: On The Massacre Of The Christians In Bulgaria
by Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde

Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones
Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?
And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her
Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?
For here the air is horrid with men's groans,
The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,
Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain
From those whose children lie upon the stones?
Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom
Curtains the land, and through the starless night
Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!
If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb
Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might
Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!
Translations. - A Song Of St. John Huss, Improved By Dr. Martin Luther. (Luther's Song-Book.)
by George MacDonald

Christ Jesus, our Redeemer born,
Who from us did God's anger turn
Through his sufferings sore and main
Help he us all out of hell-pain!
That we never should forget it,
Gave he us his flesh, to eat it,
Hid in poor bread, gift divine,
And, to drink, his blood in the wine.
Who will draw near to that table,
Must take heed, all he is able!
Who unworthy thither goes,
Thence death instead of life he sows.
God the Father praise thou duly,
That he thee would feed so truly,
And for ill deeds by thee done
Up unto death has given his son.
Have this faith, and do not waver,
'Tis a food for every craver
Who, his heart with sin opprest,
Can no more for its anguish rest.
Such kindness and such grace to get
Seeks a heart with labour great.
Is it well with thee? take care
Lest at last thou shouldst evil fare.
He doth say, Come hither, O ye
Poor, that I may pity show ye:
From the leech the sound will start,
And make a mockery of his art.
Hadst thou any skill to offer
Why for thee should I then suffer?
Table this is not for thee
If saviour thou thine own canst be.
If such faith thy heart possesses
And the same thy mouth confesses,
Fit guest then thou art indeed
And so this food thy soul will feed.
But bear fruit, or lose thy labour:
Take thou heed thou love thy neighbour,
That thou food to him mayst be
As thy God makes himself to thee.
The Cities of Old.
by Harriet Annie Wilkins

Cities and men, and nations, have passed by,
Like leaves upon an autumn's dreary sky;
Like chaff upon the ocean billow proud,
Like drops of rain on summer's fleecy cloud;
Like flowers of a wilderness,
Vanished into forgetfulness.
O! Nineveh, thou city of young Ashur's pride,
With thy strong towers, and thy bulwarks wide;
Ah! while upon thee splashed the Tigris' waters,
How little thought thy wealth-stored sons and daughters,
That Cyaxerses and his troops should wait
Three long years before thy massive gate;
Then Medes and Persians, by the torches' light,
Should ride triumphantly thy streets by night;
And from creation banish thee,
O! Nineveh. O! Nineveh.
And country of the pride of Mizriam's heart,
With pyramids that speak thy wealth and art,
Why is it that no minstrel comes, who sings
Of all the glory of thy shepherd kings?
Tyre, why are thy walls in ruins thus?
Why is thy name so seldom spoke by us?
Sidon, among the nations thou art fled,
Thy joy departed and thy glory dead;
Far gone ere all thy generations,
Fallen nations! Fallen nations!
And Babylon, with all thy thronging bands,
The glory of Chaldea's ancient lands;
Thy temple, where a numerous host was seen,
Thy gardens hung to please the Midian queen;
Where beauteous flowers smiled on their terrace beds,
Proud kings have passed through thee, and crowned heads;
And grandeur and magnificence could view
In thee a resting place--thy stores not few;
Why is it thou art all alone?
O! Babylon. O! Babylon.
And Greece, who shone in literature and might,
When Marathon's broad plains saw sword and fight;
Thy monumental ruins stand alone,
Decay has breathed upon thy sculptured stone
And desolation walks thy princely halls,
The green branch twines around thy olden walls;
And ye who stood the ten years' siege of Troy,
Time's fingers now your battlements annoy;
Why is it that thy glories cease?
O! Classic Greece. O! Classic Greece!
And thou, best city of olden time,
O! we might weep for thee, once chosen clime.
City, where Solomon his temple reared,
City, where gold and silver stores appeared;
City, where priest and prophet lowly knelt,
City, where God in mortal flesh once dwelt.
Titus, and Roman soldiers, laid thee low,
The music in thy streets has ceased to flow;
Yet wilt thou not return in joy once more,
And Lebanon give up her cedar store?
And vines and olives smile as now they smile,
Yet not upon the ruin of a holy pile;
Wilt thou Destruction's flood not stem?
Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
Cities and men, and nations, have gone by,
Like leaves upon an Autumn's dreary sky;
Like chaff upon the ocean billow proud,
Like drops upon the summer's passing cloud;
Like flowers of a wilderness,
Vanished into forgetfulness.
The Christmas Tree
by Madison Julius Cawein

Christmas is just one week off,
And Old Santa's in the house;
In the attic heard a cough
Th' other day when not a mouse
Nor a rat, I know, was there.
Mother said, "You'd better be
Good, or else, I do declare!
There won't be a Christmas-tree."
Christmas is next week. And I'm
So excited! In the night
Hardly ever sleep. One time
Woke and heard strange footsteps, right
In the hall, go down the stair;
When I cried to mother, she
Said, "Lie down, now! I declare
If you don't no Christmas-tree."
Yes; next week is Christmas. And
I heard some one laughing sure,
Low, half smothered by a hand,
In the parlor where the door
'S always locked and, my! my hair
Fairly crept. And suddenly
Heard a hoarse voice say, "Take care!
Or you'll get no Christmas-tree."
Mother was a-lying down;
'T was n't she. And then the cook
And my nurse had gone in town.
Father, he was at a book.
Must have been Old Santa there
Just a-lying low to see
If I'm good or I declare!
Trimming up my Christmas-tree.
One night, huh! the kitchen door
Banged wide open. 'T was n't wind.
And three knocks, or was it four?
Shook the window. I just skinned
Out of there and up the stair
Where my mother was; and she
Smiled, "'T was Santa, I'll declare!
Bringing in your Christmas-tree."
And I never pout or cry
When I have to go to bed;
Just get in my gown and lie
Quiet; listening for the tread
Of a foot upon the stair,
Or a voice it seems to me
Santa's saying, "I declare,
It's a lovely Christmas-tree!"
Every one just walks the chalk
Now it's near to Christmas. Yes,
I'm as careful in my talk
As a boy could be, I guess:
"For Old Santa's everywhere, "
Mother says mysteriously,
"And, unless you're good, 'declare
You won't have a Christmas-tree."
Distichs.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Chords are touch'd by Apollo, the death-laden bow, too, he bendeth;
While he the shepherdess charms, Python he lays in the dust.
-
What is merciful censure? To make thy faults appear smaller?
May be to veil them? No, no! O'er them to raise thee on high!
-
Democratic food soon cloys on the multitude's stomach;
But I'll wager, ere long, other thou'lt give them instead.
-
What in France has pass'd by, the Germans continue to practise,
For the proudest of men flatters the people and fawns.
-
Who is the happiest of men? He who values the merits of others,
And in their pleasure takes joy, even as though 'twere his own.
-
Not in the morning alone, not only at mid-day he charmeth;
Even at setting, the sun is still the same glorious planet.
Christmas
by William Henry Davies

Christmas has come, let's eat and drink, 
This is no time to sit and think;
Farewell to study, books and pen,
And welcome to all kinds of men.
Let all men now get rid of care,
And what one has let others share;
Then 'tis the same, no matter which
Of us is poor, or which is rich.
Let each man have enough this day,
Since those that can are glad to pay;
There's nothing now too rich or good
For poor men, not the King's own food.
Now like a singing bird my feet
Touch earth, and I must drink and eat.
Welcome to all men: I'll not care
What any of my fellows wear;
We'll not let cloth divide our souls,
They'll swim stark naked in the bowls.
Welcome, poor beggar: I'll not see
That hand of yours dislodge a flea,, 
While you sit at my side and beg,
Or right foot scratching your left leg.
Farewell restraint: we will not now
Measure the ale our brains allow,
But drink as much as we can hold.
We'll count no change when we spend gold;
This is no time to save, but spend,
To give for nothing, not to lend.
Let foes make friends: let them forget
The mischief-making dead that fret
The living with complaint like this, 
"He wronged us once, hate him and his."
Christmas has come; let every man
Eat, drink, be merry all he can.
Ale's my best mark, but if port wine
Or whisky's yours, let it be mine;
No matter what lies in the bowls,
We'll make it rich with our own souls.
Farewell to study, books and pen,
And welcome to all kinds of men.
To Chloe II
by Eugene Field

Chloe, you shun me like a hind
That, seeking vainly for her mother,
Hears danger in each breath of wind,
And wildly darts this way and t' other;
Whether the breezes sway the wood
Or lizards scuttle through the brambles,
She starts, and off, as though pursued,
The foolish, frightened creature scrambles.
But, Chloe, you're no infant thing
That should esteem a man an ogre;
Let go your mother's apron-string,
And pin your faith upon a toga!
Poets
by Robert Fuller Murray

Children of earth are we,
Lovers of land and sea,
Of hill, of brook, of tree,
Of all things fair;
Of all things dark or bright,
Born of the day and night,
Red rose and lily white
And dusky hair.
Yet not alone from earth
Do we derive our birth.
What were our singing worth
Were this the whole?
Somewhere from heaven afar
Hath dropped a fiery star,
Which makes us what we are,
Which is our soul.
Sonnets: Idea LIII Another To The River Ankor
by Michael Drayton

Clear Ankor, on whose silver-sanded shore,
My soul-shrined saint, my fair Idea lives;
O bless'd brook, whose milk-white swans adore
Thy crystal stream, refin'd by her eyes,
Where sweet myrrh-breathing Zephyr in the spring
Gently distils his nectar-dropping showers,
Where nightingales in Arden sit and sing
Amongst the dainty dew-impearl'd flowers;
Say thus, fair brook, when thou shalt see thy queen,
"Lo, here thy shepherd spent his wand'ring years
And in these shades, dear nymph, he oft hath been;
And here to thee he sacrificed his tears."
Fair Arden, thou my Tempe art alone,
And thou, sweet Ankor, art my Helicon!
Wild Card
by Paul Cameron Brown

Clayton brothers at the corral,
its Earp City today
tumbleweed junction for numerous lives,
not to mention lies
swift-draw artists
encased in a memory of stone
boots up ...
with all the forlorn grace of
being pushed in front
of a train.
The Tide River
by Charles Kingsley

Clear and cool, clear and cool,
By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool;
Cool and clear, cool and clear,
By shining shingle, and foaming wear;
Under the crag where the ouzel sings,
And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings,
Undefiled, for the undefiled;
Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.
Dank and foul, dank and foul,
By the smoky town in its murky cowl;
Foul and dank, foul and dank,
By wharf and sewer and slimy bank;
Darker and darker the farther I go,
Baser and baser the richer I grow;
Who dare sport with the sin-defiled?
Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.
Strong and free, strong and free,
The floodgates are open, away to the sea.
Free and strong, free and strong,
Cleansing my streams as I hurry along
To the golden sands, and the leaping bar,
And the taintless tide that awaits me afar,
As I lose myself in the infinite main,
Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again.
Undefiled, for the undefiled;
Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.
From The Water-Babies.
Eversley, 1862.
Our Saviour And The Samaritan Woman At The Well.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Close beside the crystal waters of Jacob's far-famed well,
Whose dewy coolness gratefully upon the parched air fell,
Reflecting back the bright hot heavens within its waveless breast,
Jesus, foot-sore and weary, had sat Him down to rest.
Alone was He - His followers had gone to Sichar near,
Whose roofs and spires rose sharply against the heavens clear,
For food which Nature craveth, whate'er each hope or care,
And which, though Lord of Nature, He disdained not to share.
While thus He calmly waited, came a woman to the well,
With water vase poised gracefully, and step that lightly fell,
One of Samaria's daughters, most fair, alas! but frail,
Her dark locks bound with flowers instead of modest, shelt'ring veil.
No thought of scornful anger within His bosom burned,
Nor, with abhorrent gesture, His face from her He turned;
But as His gaze of purity dwelt on her, searching, meek,
Her bright eyes fell, and blushes hot burned on her brow and cheek.
He told her with a gentleness, by God-like pity nursed,
Of wond'rous living fountains at which to slake her thirst;
That those whose lips, thrice blessed, should a draught from them obtain,
Despite earth's toils and troubles, would ne'er know thirst again.
He spoke, too, of the frailties which her womanhood had marred,
That priceless crown which, she, alas! had sadly failed to guard,
No word of bold denial did that woman dare to plan - 
She felt that He who spoke with her was more than mortal man.
And when the twelve disciples returned, their errand done,
They wondered at His converse with that lost and erring one,
But still they asked no question, while she, with thoughtful mien,
Returned to tell her friends at home of all that she had seen.
Not only for that daughter of Samaria's hot clime - 
Child of an ancient people, of a by-gone faith and time - 
Was meant the exhortation that from His lips then fell,
But for His Christian children, for us, to-day, as well.
For us, still pure and sparkling, those living waters flow
Of which He told Samaria's child long centuries ago:
Forgetting thoughts of earthly pride, and hopes of worldly gain,
Seek we but once of them to drink - we'll never thirst again.
Battle Song.
by Sophie M. (Almon) Hensley

Clear sounds the call on high:
"To arms and victory!"
Brave hearts that win or die,
Dying, may win;
Proudly the banners wave,
What though the goal's the grave?
Death cannot harm the brave, - 
Through death they win.
Softly the evening hush
Stilling strife's maddened rush
Cools the fierce battle flush, - 
See the day die;
A thousand faces white
Mirror the cold moonlight
And glassy eyes are bright
With Victory.
The Silvery One
by John Frederick Freeman

Clear from the deep sky pours the moon
Her silver on the heavy dark;
The small stars blink.
Against the moon the maple bough
Flutters distinct her leafy spears;
All sound falls weak....
Weak the train's whistle, the dog's bark,
Slow steps; and rustling into her nest
At last, the thrush.
All's still; only earth turns and breathes.
Then that amazing trembling note
Cleaves the deep wave
Of silence. Shivers even that silvery one;
Sigh all the trees, even the cedar dark
----O joy, and I.
Envoy.
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Clear was the night: the moon was young:
The larkspurs in the plots
Mingled their orange with the gold
Of the forget-me-nots.
The poppies seemed a silver mist:
So darkly fell the gloom.
You scarce had guessed yon crimson streaks
Were buttercups in bloom.
But one thing moved: a little child
Crashed through the flower and fern:
And all my soul rose up to greet
The sage of whom I learn.
I looked into his awful eyes:
I waited his decree:
I made ingenious attempts
To sit upon his knee.
The babe upraised his wondering eyes,
And timidly he said,
"A trend towards experiment
In modern minds is bred.
"I feel the will to roam, to learn
By test, experience, _nous_,
That fire is hot and ocean deep,
And wolves carnivorous.
"My brain demands complexity."
The lisping cherub cried.
I looked at him, and only said,
"Go on. The world is wide."
A tear rolled down his pinafore,
"Yet from my life must pass
The simple love of sun and moon,
The old games in the grass;
"Now that my back is to my home
Could these again be found?"
I looked on him, and only said,
"Go on. The world is round."
Lonely Watchman
by Alfred Lichtenstein

City and beloved are far behind.
I am so betrayed and alone.
Slowly I move from one
Leg to the other.
Around me strange doors screech.
I reach for dagger and gun.
Ah, if I were only at home
With my mother.
Upon Her Eyes
by Robert Herrick

Clear are her eyes,
Like purest skies;
Discovering from thence
A baby there
That turns each sphere,
Like an Intelligence.