DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Contemplating Hell
by Bertolt Brecht

Contemplating Hell, as I once heard it,
My brother Shelley found it to be a place
Much like the city of London. I,
Who do not live in London, but in Los Angeles,
Find, contemplating Hell, that it
Must be even more like Los Angeles.
Also in Hell,
I do not doubt it, there exist these opulent gardens
With flowers as large as trees, wilting, of course,
Very quickly, if they are not watered with very expensive water. And fruit markets
With great leaps of fruit, which nonetheless
Possess neither scent nor taste. And endless trains of autos,
Lighter than their own shadows, swifter than
Foolish thoughts, shimmering vehicles, in which
Rosy people, coming from nowhere, go nowhere.
And houses, designed for happiness, standing empty,
Even when inhabited.
Even the houses in Hell are not all ugly.
But concern about being thrown into the street
Consumes the inhabitants of the villas no less
Than the inhabitants of the barracks.
On The Neglect Of Homer.
by William Cowper

Could Homer come himself, distress'd and poor,
And tune his harp at Rhedicina's door,
The rich old vixen would exclaim (I fear),
'Begone! no tramper gets a farthing here.'
New Country
by Mary Hannay Foott

Cond' had come with us all the way,
Eight hundred miles, but the fortnight's rest
Made him fresh as a youngster, the sturdy bay!
And Lurline was looking her very best.
Weary and footsore, the cattle strayed
'Mid the silvery saltbush well content;
Where the creeks lay cool 'neath the gidya's1 shade
The stock-horses clustered, travel-spent.
In the bright spring morning we left them all
Camp, and cattle, and white, and black
And rode for the Range's westward fall,
Where the dingo's trail was the only track.
Slow through the clay-pans,2 wet to the knee,
With the cane-grass rustling overhead;
Swift o'er the plains with never a tree;
Up the cliffs by a torrent's bed.
Bridle on arm for a mile or more
We toiled, ere we reached Bindanna's verge
And saw, as one sees a far-off shore,
The blue hills bounding the forest surge.
An ocean of trees, by the west wind stirred,
Rolled, ever rolled, to the great cliff's base;
And its sound like the noise of waves was heard
'Mid the rocks and the caves of that lonely place.
-    -    -    -    -    -
We recked not of wealth in stream or soil
As we heard on the heights the breezes sing;
We felt no longer our travel-toil;
We feared no more what the years might bring.
A Beautiful Young Nymph Going To Bed.
by Jonathan Swift

WRITTEN FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FAIR SEX. 1731
Corinna, pride of Drury-Lane,
For whom no shepherd sighs in vain;
Never did Covent-Garden boast
So bright a batter'd strolling toast!
No drunken rake to pick her up,
No cellar where on tick to sup;
Returning at the midnight hour,
Four stories climbing to her bower;
Then, seated on a three-legg'd chair,
Takes off her artificial hair;
Now picking out a crystal eye,
She wipes it clean, and lays it by.
Her eyebrows from a mouse's hide
Stuck on with art on either side,
Pulls off with care, and first displays 'em,
Then in a play-book smoothly lays 'em.
Now dext'rously her plumpers draws,
That serve to fill her hollow jaws,
Untwists a wire, and from her gums
A set of teeth completely comes;
Pulls out the rags contrived to prop
Her flabby dugs, and down they drop.
Proceeding on, the lovely goddess
Unlaces next her steel-ribb'd bodice,
Which, by the operator's skill,
Press down the lumps, the hollows fill.
Up goes her hand, and off she slips
The bolsters that supply her hips;
With gentlest touch she next explores
Her chancres, issues, running sores;
Effects of many a sad disaster,
And then to each applies a plaster:
But must, before she goes to bed,
Rub off the daubs of white and red,
And smooth the furrows in her front
With greasy paper stuck upon't.
She takes a bolus ere she sleeps;
And then between two blankets creeps.
With pains of love tormented lies;
Or, if she chance to close her eyes,
Of Bridewell[1] and the Compter[1] dreams,
And feels the lash, and faintly screams;
Or, by a faithless bully drawn,
At some hedge-tavern lies in pawn;
Or to Jamaica[2] seems transported
Alone, and by no planter courted;
Or, near Fleet-ditch's[3] oozy brinks,
Surrounded with a hundred stinks,
Belated, seems on watch to lie,
And snap some cully passing by;
Or, struck with fear, her fancy runs
On watchmen, constables, and duns,
From whom she meets with frequent rubs;
But never from religious clubs;
Whose favour she is sure to find,
Because she pays them all in kind.
Corinna wakes. A dreadful sight!
Behold the ruins of the night!
A wicked rat her plaster stole,
Half eat, and dragg'd it to his hole.
The crystal eye, alas! was miss'd;
And puss had on her plumpers p - st,
A pigeon pick'd her issue-pease:
And Shock her tresses fill'd with fleas.
The nymph, though in this mangled plight
Must ev'ry morn her limbs unite.
But how shall I describe her arts
To re-collect the scatter'd parts?
Or show the anguish, toil, and pain,
Of gath'ring up herself again?
The bashful Muse will never bear
In such a scene to interfere.
Corinna, in the morning dizen'd,
Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison'd.
Consultation.
by Robert Herrick

Consult ere thou begin'st; that done, go on
With all wise speed for execution.
Conformity.
by Robert Herrick

Conformity was ever known
A foe to dissolution:
Nor can we that a ruin call,
Whose crack gives crushing unto all.
Defiance. (Translations From The Hebrew Poets Of Medaeval Spain.)
by Emma Lazarus

"Conquer the gloomy night of thy sorrow, for the morning greets
thee with laughter.
Rise and clothe thyself with noble pride,
Break loose from the tyranny of grief.
Thou standest alone among men,
Thy song is like a pearl in beauty."
So spake my friend. 'T is well!
The billows of the stormy sea which overwhelmed my soul, -
These I subdue; I quake not
Before the bow and arrow of destiny.
I endured with patience when he deceitfully lied to me
With his treacherous smile.
Yea, boldly I defy Fate,
I cringe not to envious Fortune.
I mock the towering floods.
My brave heart does not shrink -
This heart of mine, that, albeit young in years,
Is none the less rich in deep, keen-eyed experience.
Solomon Ben Judah Gabirol (Died Between 1070-80.)
Dusk
by Madison Julius Cawein

Corn-colored clouds upon a sky of gold,
And 'mid their sheaves, where, like a daisy-bloom
Left by the reapers to the gathering gloom,
The star of twilight glows, as Ruth, 'tis told,
Dreamed homesick 'mid the harvest fields of old,
The Dusk goes gleaning color and perfume
From Bible slopes of heaven, that illume
Her pensive beauty deep in shadows stoled.
Hushed is the forest; and blue vale and hill
Are still, save for the brooklet, sleepily
Stumbling the stone with one foam-fluttering foot:
Save for the note of one far whippoorwill,
And in my heart her name, like some sweet bee
Within a rose, blowing a faery flute.
A Hymne To His Ladies Birth-Place
by Michael Drayton

Couentry, that do'st adorne[1]
The Countrey wherein I was borne,
Yet therein lyes not thy prayse
Why I should crowne thy Tow'rs with Bayes:
'Tis not thy Wall, me to thee weds
Thy Ports, nor thy proud Pyrameds,
Nor thy Trophies of the Bore,[2]
But that Shee which I adore,
Which scarce Goodnesse selfe can payre,
First their breathing blest thy Ayre;
IDEA, in which Name I hide
Her, in my heart Deifi'd,
For what good, Man's mind can see,
Onely her IDEAS be;
She, in whom the Vertues came
In Womans shape, and tooke her Name,
She so farre past Imitation,
As but Nature our Creation
Could not alter, she had aymed,
More then Woman to haue framed:
She, whose truely written Story,
To thy poore Name shall adde more glory,
Then if it should haue beene thy Chance,
T' haue bred our Kings that Conquer'd France.
Had She beene borne the former Age,
That house had beene a Pilgrimage,[3]
And reputed more Diuine,
Then Walsingham or BECKETS Shrine.
That Princesse, to whom thou do'st owe
Thy Freedome, whose Cleere blushing snow,
The enuious Sunne saw, when as she[4]
Naked rode to make Thee free,
Was but her Type, as to foretell,
Thou should'st bring forth one, should excell
Her Bounty, by whom thou should'st haue
More Honour, then she Freedome gaue;
And that great Queene, which but of late[5]
Rul'd this Land in Peace and State,
Had not beene, but Heauen had sworne,
A Maide should raigne, when she was borne.
Of thy Streets, which thou hold'st best,[6]
And most frequent of the rest,
Happy Mich-Parke eu'ry yeere,
On the fourth of August there,[7]
Let thy Maides from FLORA'S bowers,
With their Choyce and daintiest flowers
Decke Thee vp, and from their store,
With braue Garlands crowne that dore.
The old Man passing by that way,
To his Sonne in time shall say,
There was that Lady borne, which long
To after-Ages shall be sung;
Who vnawares being passed by,
Back to that House shall cast his Eye,
Speaking my Verses as he goes,
And with a Sigh shut eu'ry Close.
Deare Citie, trauelling by thee,
When thy rising Spyres I see,
Destined her place of Birth;
Yet me thinkes the very Earth
Hallowed is, so farre as I
Can thee possibly descry:
Then thou dwelling in this place,
Hearing some rude Hinde disgrace
Thy Citie with some scuruy thing,
Which some Iester forth did bring,
Speake these Lines where thou do'st come,
And strike the Slaue for euer dumbe.
To Cara, After An Interval Of Absence.
by Thomas Moore

Concealed within the shady wood
A mother left her sleeping child,
And flew, to cull her rustic food,
The fruitage of the forest wild.
But storms upon her pathway rise,
The mother roams, astray and weeping;
Far from the weak appealing cries
Of him she left so sweetly sleeping.
She hopes, she fears; a light is seen,
And gentler blows the night wind's breath;
Yet no--'tis gone--the storms are keen,
The infant may be chilled to death!
Perhaps, even now, in darkness shrouded,
His little eyes lie cold and still;--
And yet, perhaps, they are not clouded,
Life and love may light them still.
Thus, Cara, at our last farewell,
When, fearful even thy hand to touch,
I mutely asked those eyes to tell
If parting pained thee half so much:
I thought,--and, oh! forgive the thought,
For none was e'er by love inspired
Whom fancy had not also taught
To hope the bliss his soul desired.
Yes, I did think, in Cara's mind,
Though yet to that sweet mind unknown,
I left one infant wish behind,
One feeling, which I called my own.
Oh blest! though but in fancy blest,
How did I ask of Pity's care,
To shield and strengthen, in thy breast,
The nursling I had cradled there.
And, many an hour, beguiled by pleasure,
And many an hour of sorrow numbering,
I ne'er forgot the new-born treasure,
I left within thy bosom slumbering.
Perhaps, indifference has not chilled it,
Haply, it yet a throb may give--
Yet, no--perhaps, a doubt has killed it;
Say, dearest--does the feeling live?
Confession.
by Robert Herrick

Confession twofold is, as Austin says,
The first of sin is, and the next of praise.
If ill it goes with thee, thy faults confess:
If well, then chant God's praise with cheerfulness.
Wild Flowers
by George MacDonald

Content Primroses,
With hearts at rest in your thick leaves' soft care,
Peeping as from his mother's lap the child
Who courts shy shelter from his own open air!--
Hanging Harebell,
Whose blue heaven to no wanderer ever closes,
Though thou still lookest earthward from thy domed cell!--
Fluttering-wild
Anemone, so well
Named of the Wind, to whom thou, fettered-free,
Yieldest thee, helpless--wilfully,
With Take me or leave me,
Sweet Wind, I am thine own Anemone!--
Thirsty Arum, ever dreaming
Of lakes in wildernesses gleaming!--
Fire-winged Pimpernel,
Communing with some hidden well,
And secrets with the sun-god holding,
At fixed hour folding and unfolding!--
How is it with you, children all,
When human children on you fall,
Gather you in eager haste,
Spoil your plenty with their waste--
Fill and fill their dropping hands?
Feel you hurtfully disgraced
By their injurious demands?
Do you know them from afar,
Shuddering at their merry hum,
Growing faint as near they come?
Blind and deaf they think you are--
Is it only ye are dumb?
You alive at least, I think,
Trembling almost on the brink
Of our lonely consciousness:
If it be so,
Take this comfort for your woe,
For the breaking of your rest,
For the tearing in your breast,
For the blotting of the sun,
For the death too soon begun,
For all else beyond redress--
Or what seemeth so to be--
That the children's wonder-springs
Bubble high at sight of you,
Lovely, lowly, common things:
In you more than you they see!
Take this too--that, walking out,
Looking fearlessly about,
Ye rebuke our manhood's doubt,
And our childhood's faith renew;
So that we, with old age nigh,
Seeing you alive and well
Out of winter's crucible,
Hearing you, from graveyard crept,
Tell us that ye only slept--
Think we die not, though we die.
Thus ye die not, though ye die--
Only yield your being up,
Like a nectar-holding cup:
Deaf, ye give to them that hear,
With a greatness lovely-dear;
Blind, ye give to them that see--
Poor, but bounteous royally.
Lowly servants to the higher,
Burning upwards in the fire
Of Nature's endless sacrifice,
In great Life's ascent ye rise,
Leave the lowly earth behind,
Pass into the human mind,
Pass with it up into God,
Whence ye came though through the clod--
Pass, and find yourselves at home
Where but life can go and come;
Where all life is in its nest,
At loving one with holy Best;--
Who knows?--with shadowy, dawning sense
Of a past, age-long somnolence!
The Blind
by Charles Baudelaire

Consider them, my soul, they are a fright!
Like mannequins, vaguely ridiculous,
Peculiar, terrible somnambulists,
Beaming - who can say where - their eyes of night.
These orbs, in which a spark is never seen,
As if in looking far and wide stay raised
On high; they never seem to cast their gaze
Down to the street, head hung, as in a dream.
Thus they traverse the blackness of their days,
Kin to the silence of eternity.
o city! while you laugh and roar and play,
Mad with your lusts to point of cruelty,
Look at me! dragging, dazed more than their kind.
What in the Skies can these men hope to find?
A Scene On The Banks Of The Hudson.
by William Cullen Bryant

Cool shades and dews are round my way,
And silence of the early day;
Mid the dark rocks that watch his bed,
Glitters the mighty Hudson spread,
Unrippled, save by drops that fall
From shrubs that fringe his mountain wall;
And o'er the clear still water swells
The music of the Sabbath bells.
All, save this little nook of land
Circled with trees, on which I stand;
All, save that line of hills which lie
Suspended in the mimic sky,
Seems a blue void, above, below,
Through which the white clouds come and go,
And from the green world's farthest steep
I gaze into the airy deep.
Loveliest of lovely things are they,
On earth, that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
Even love, long tried and cherished long,
Becomes more tender and more strong,
At thought of that insatiate grave
From which its yearnings cannot save.
River! in this still hour thou hast
Too much of heaven on earth to last;
Nor long may thy still waters lie,
An image of the glorious sky.
Thy fate and mine are not repose,
And ere another evening close,
Thou to thy tides shalt turn again,
And I to seek the crowd of men.
Grief.
by Robert Herrick

Consider sorrows, how they are aright:
Grief, if't be great, 'tis short; if long, 'tis light.
Coortin Days.
by John Hartley

Coortin days, - Coortin days, - loved one an lover!
What wod aw give if those days could come ovver?
Weddin is joyous, - its pleasur unstinted;
But coortin is th' sweetest thing ivver invented.
Walkin an talkin,
An nursin Love's spark,
Charmin an warmin
Tho th' neet may be dark.
Oh! but it's nice when yor way's long and dreary,
To walk wi yor arm raand th' waist ov yor dearie;
Tellin sweet falsehoods, the haars to beguile em,
(If yo tell'd em ith' dayleet they'd put yo ith' sylum.)
But ivverything's fair
I' love an i' war,
But be sewer to act square; - 
An do if yo dar!
Squeezin an kissin an kissin an squeezin, - 
Laughin an coughin an ticklin an sneezin, - 
But remember, - if maybe, sich knowledge yo lack,
Allus smile in her face, but, sneeze at her back.
Yo may think, if a fooil,
Sich a thing nivver mattered,
But a lass, as a rule,
Doesn't want to be spattered.
When th' coortin neet comes, tho' yor appetite's ragin,
Dooant fill up wi oonions, wi mar'gum an sage in,
Remember, the darlin, where centred yor bliss is,
Likes to fancy, yor livin on love an her kisses.
An yor linen, if plain,
Have all spotless an fresh:
Then shoo connot complain,
When shoo has it to wesh.
When Love's flame's been lit, an burst into a glow,
Th' best thing yo can do, - (that's as far as aw know;)
Is to goa to a parson an pay him his price,
An to join yo together he'll put in a splice,
Then together yo'll face
This world's battle an bother,
An if that isn't th' case,
Yo can feight for each other.
The Last Watch
by Bliss Carman (William)

Comrades, comrades, have me buried
Like a warrior of the sea,
With a flag across my breast
And my sword upon my knee.
Steering out from vanished headlands
For a harbor on no chart,
With the winter in the rigging,
With the ice-wind in my heart,
Down the bournless slopes of sea-room,
With the long gray wake behind,
I have sailed my cruiser steady
With no pilot but the wind.
Battling with relentless pirates
From the lower seas of Doom,
I have kept the colors flying
Through the roar of drift and gloom.
Scudding where the shadow foemen
Hang about us grim and stark,
Broken spars and shredded canvas,
We are racing for the dark.
Sped and blown abaft the sunset
Like a shriek the storm has caught;
But the helm is lashed to windward,
And the sails are sheeted taut.
Comrades, comrades, have me buried
Like a warrior of the night.
I can hear the bell-buoy calling
Down below the harbor light
Steer in shoreward, loose the signal,
The last watch has been cut short;
Speak me kindly to the islesmen,
When we make the foreign port.
We shall make it ere the morning
Rolls the fog from strait and bluff;
Where the offing crimsons eastward
There is anchorage enough.
How I wander in my dreaming!
Are we northing nearer home,
Or outbound for fresh adventure
On the reeling plains of foam?
North I think it is, my comrades,
Where one heart-beat counts for ten,
Where the loving hand is loyal,
And the women's sons are men;
Where the red auroras tremble
When the polar night is still,
Lighting home the worn seafarers
To their haven in the hill.
Comrades, comrades, have me buried
Like a warrior of the North.
Lower me the long-boat, stay me
In your arms, and bear me forth;
Lay me in the sheets and row me,
With the tiller in my hand,
Row me in below the beacon
Where my sea-dogs used to land.
Has your captain lost his cunning
After leading you so far?
Row me your last league, my sea-kings;
It is safe within the bar.
Shoulder me and house me hillward,
Where the field-lark makes his bed,
So the gulls can wheel above me,
All day long when I am dead;
Where the keening wind can find me
With the April rain for guide,
And come crooning her old stories
Of the kingdoms of the tide.
Comrades, comrades, have me buried
Like a warrior of the sun;
I have carried my sealed orders
Till the last command is done.
Kiss me on the cheek for courage,
(There is none to greet me home,)
Then farewell to your old lover
Of the thunder of the foam;
For the grass is full of slumber
In the twilight world for me,
And my tired hands are slackened
From their toiling on the sea.
Dusk.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Corn-Colored clouds upon a sky of gold,
And 'mid their sheaves, where, like a daisy bloom
Left by the reapers to the gathering gloom,
The star of twilight flames, as Ruth, 't is told,
Dreamed homesick 'mid the harvest fields of old,
The Dusk goes gleaning color and perfume
From Bible slopes of heaven, that illume
Her pensive beauty deep in shadows stoled.
Hushed is the forest; and blue vale and hill
Are still, save for the brooklet, sleepily
Stumbling the stone, its foam like some white foot:
Save for the note of one far whippoorwill,
And in my heart her name, like some sweet bee
Within a flow'r, blowing a fairy flute.
Consider
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

(Macmillan's Magazine, Jan. 1866.)
Consider
The lilies of the field whose bloom is brief: - 
We are as they;
Like them we fade away,
As doth a leaf.
Consider
The sparrows of the air of small account:
Our God doth view
Whether they fall or mount, - 
He guards us too.
Consider
The lilies that do neither spin nor toil,
Yet are most fair: - 
What profits all this care
And all this coil?
Consider
The birds that have no barn nor harvest-weeks;
God gives them food: - 
Much more our Father seeks
To do us good.
Yell'Ham-Wood's Story
by Thomas Hardy

Coomb-Firtrees say that Life is a moan,
And Clyffe-hill Clump says "Yea!"
But Yell'ham says a thing of its own:
It's not "Gray, gray
Is Life alway!"
That Yell'ham says,
Nor that Life is for ends unknown.
It says that Life would signify
A thwarted purposing:
That we come to live, and are called to die,
Yes, that's the thing
In fall, in spring,
That Yell'ham says:-
"Life offers - to deny!"
1902.
Conformity Is Comely.
by Robert Herrick

Conformity gives comeliness to things:
And equal shares exclude all murmurings.
The Somme Valley, June, 1917
by Frank James Prewett

Comrade, why do you weep?
Is it sorrow for a friend
Who fell, rifle in hand,
His last stand at an end?
The thunder-lipped grey guns
Lament him, fierce and slow,
Where he found his dreamless bed,
Head to head with a foe.
The sweet lark beats on high
For the peace of those who sleep
In the quiet embrace of earth:
Comrade, why do you weep?
To The Road
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Cool is the wind, for the summer is waning,
Who 's for the road?
Sun-flecked and soft, where the dead leaves are raining,
Who 's for the road?
Knapsack and alpenstock press hand and shoulder,
Prick of the brier and roll of the boulder;
This be your lot till the season grow older;
Who 's for the road?
Up and away in the hush of the morning,
Who 's for the road?
Vagabond he, all conventions a-scorning,
Who 's for the road?
Music of warblers so merrily singing,
Draughts from the rill from the roadside up-springing,
Nectar of grapes from the vines lowly swinging,
These on the road.
Now every house is a hut or a hovel,
Come to the road:
Mankind and moles in the dark love to grovel,
But to the road.
Throw off the loads that are bending you double;
Love is for life, only labor is trouble;
Truce to the town, whose best gift is a bubble:
Come to the road!
Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - V. - Continued
by William Wordsworth

Complacent Fictions were they, yet the same
Involved a history of no doubtful sense,
History that proves by inward evidence
From what a precious source of truth it came.
Ne'er could the boldest Eulogist have dared
Such deeds to paint, such characters to frame,
But for coeval sympathy prepared
To greet with instant faith their loftiest claim.
None but a noble people could have loved
Flattery in Ancient Rome's pure-minded style:
Not in like sort the Runic Scald was moved;
He, nursed 'mid savage passions that defile
Humanity, sang feats that well might call
For the blood-thirsty mead of Odin's riotous Hall.
To Mary.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Could aught of song."
I.
Could aught of song declare my pains,
Could artful numbers move thee,
The muse should tell, in labour'd strains,
O Mary, how I love thee!
They who but feign a wounded heart
May teach the lyre to languish;
But what avails the pride of art,
When wastes the soul with anguish?
II.
Then let the sudden bursting sigh
The heart-felt pang discover;
And in the keen, yet tender eye,
O read th' imploring lover.
For well I know thy gentle mind
Disdains art's gay disguising;
Beyond what Fancy e'er refin'd,
The voice of nature prizing.