DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Cat And The Rat.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Four creatures, wont to prowl, - 
Sly Grab-and-Snatch, the cat,
Grave Evil-bode, the owl,
Thief Nibble-stitch, the rat,
And Madam Weasel, prim and fine, - 
Inhabited a rotten pine.
A man their home discover'd there,
And set, one night, a cunning snare.
The cat, a noted early-riser,
Went forth, at break of day,
To hunt her usual prey.
Not much the wiser
For morning's feeble ray,
The noose did suddenly surprise her.
Waked by her strangling cry,
Grey Nibble-stitch drew nigh:
As full of joy was he
As of despair was she,
For in the noose he saw
His foe of mortal paw.
'Dear friend,' said Mrs. Grab-and-Snatch,
'Do, pray, this cursed cord detach.
I've always known your skill,
And often your good-will;
Now help me from this worst of snares,
In which I fell at unawares.
'Tis by a sacred right,
You, sole of all your race,
By special love and grace,
Have been my favourite - 
The darling of my eyes.
'Twas order'd by celestial cares,
No doubt; I thank the blessed skies,
That, going out to say my prayers,
As cats devout each morning do,
This net has made me pray to you.
Come, fall to work upon the cord.'
Replied the rat, 'And what reward
Shall pay me, if I dare?'
'Why,' said the cat, 'I swear
To be your firm ally:
Henceforth, eternally,
These powerful claws are yours,
Which safe your life insures.
I'll guard from quadruped and fowl;
I'll eat the weasel and the owl.'
'Ah,' cried the rat, 'you fool!
I'm quite too wise to be your tool.'
He said, and sought his snug retreat,
Close at the rotten pine-tree's feet.
Where plump he did the weasel meet;
Whom shunning by a happy dodge,
He climb'd the hollow trunk to lodge;
And there the savage owl he saw.
Necessity became his law,
And down he went, the rope to gnaw.
Strand after strand in two he bit,
And freed, at last, the hypocrite.
That moment came the man in sight;
The new allies took hasty flight.
A good while after that,
Our liberated cat
Espied her favourite rat,
Quite out of reach, and on his guard.
'My friend,' said she, 'I take your shyness hard;
Your caution wrongs my gratitude;
Approach, and greet your staunch ally.
Do you suppose, dear rat, that I
Forget the solemn oath I mew'd?'
'Do I forget,' the rat replied,
'To what your nature is allied?
To thankfulness, or even pity,
Can cats be ever bound by treaty?'
Alliance from necessity
Is safe just while it has to be.
To A Picture Of Eleonora Duse With The Greek Fire, In "Francesca da Rimini"
by Sara Teasdale

Francesca's life that was a limpid flame
Agleam against the shimmer of a sword,
Which falling, quenched the flame in blood outpoured
To free the house of Rimino from shame,
Francesca's death that blazed aloft her name
In guilty fadeless glory, hurling toward
The windy darkness where the tempest roared,
Her spirit burdened by the weight of blame,
Francesca's life and death are mirrored here
Forever, on the face of her who stands
Illumined and intent beside the blaze,
Grown one with it, and reading without fear
That they shall fare upon the selfsame ways,
Plucked forth and cast away by bloody hands.
Glenlogie
by Frank Sidgwick

The Text is from Sharpe's Ballad Book (1823). It is an extremely popular ballad in Scotland.
The Story.--Lady Jean Melville (in other versions Jean of Bethelnie, in Aberdeenshire), scarce sixteen years old, falls in love at first sight with Glenlogie, and tells him her mind. But he is already engaged, and Lady Jean takes to her care-bed. Her father offers the consolation, usual in such cases, of another and a richer husband. Jean, however, prefers the love of Glenlogie to the euphony of Drumfendrich, and gets her father's chaplain to write a letter to Glenlogie, which is so well indited that it moves him to tears, and all ends happily.
GLENLOGIE
1.
Four and twenty nobles sits in the king's ha',
Bonnie Glenlogie is the flower among them a'.
2.
In came Lady Jean, skipping on the floor,
And she has chosen Glenlogie 'mong a' that was there.
3.
She turned to his footman, and thus she did say:
'Oh, what is his name? and where does he stay?'
4.
'His name is Glenlogie, when he is from home;
He is of the gay Gordons, his name it is John.'
5.
'Glenlogie, Glenlogie, an you will prove kind,
My love is laid on you; I am telling my mind.'
6.
He turned about lightly, as the Gordons does a':
'I thank you, Lady Jean, my loves is promised awa'.'
7.
She called on her maidens her bed for to make,
Her rings and her jewels all from her to take.
8.
In came Jeanie's father, a wae man was he;
Says, 'I'll wed you to Drumfendrich, he has mair gold than he.'
9.
Her father's own chaplain, being a man of great skill,
He wrote him a letter, and indited it well.
10.
The first lines he looked at, a light laugh laughed he;
But ere he read through it the tears blinded his e'e.
11.
Oh, pale and wan looked she when Glenlogie cam in.
But even rosy grew she when Glenlogie sat down.
12.
'Turn round, Jeanie Melville, turn round to this side,
And I'll be the bridegroom, and you'll be the bride.'
13.
Oh, 'twas a merry wedding, and the portion down told,
Of bonnie Jeanie Melville, who was scarce sixteen years old.
Sonnet: The Human Seasons
by John Keats

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honied cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness, to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.
Sospan Fach.
by Robert von Ranke Graves

(The Little Saucepan)
Four collier lads from Ebbw Vale
Took shelter from a shower of hail,
And there beneath a spreading tree
Attuned their mouths to harmony.
With smiling joy on every face
Two warbled tenor, two sang bass,
And while the leaves above them hissed with
Rough hail, they started "Aberystwyth."
Old Parry's hymn, triumphant, rich,
They changed through with even pitch,
Till at the end of their grand noise
I called:    "Give us the 'Sospan' boys!"
Who knows a tune so soft, so strong,
So pitiful as that "Saucepan" song
For exiled hope, despaired desire
Of lost souls for their cottage fire?
Then low at first with gathering sound
Rose their four voices, smooth and round,
Till back went Time:    once more I stood
With Fusiliers in Mametz Wood.
Fierce burned the sun, yet cheeks were pale,
For ice hail they had leaden hail;
In that fine forest, green and big,
There stayed unbroken not one twig.
They sang, they swore, they plunged in haste,
Stumbling and shouting through the waste;
The little "Saucepan" flamed on high,
Emblem of hope and ease gone by.
Rough pit-boys from the coaly South,
They sang, even in the cannon's mouth;
Like Sunday's chapel, Monday's inn,
The death-trap sounded with their din.
***
The storm blows over, Sun comes out,
The choir breaks up with jest and shout,
With what relief I watch them part, 
Another note would break my heart!
Sonnets - V. - Four Fiery Steeds Impatient Of The Rein
by William Wordsworth

Four fiery steeds impatient of the rein
Whirled us o'er sunless ground beneath a sky
As void of sunshine, when, from that wide plain,
Clear tops of far-off mountains we descry,
Like a Sierra of cerulean Spain,
All light and lustre. Did no heart reply;
Yes, there was One; for One, asunder fly
The thousand links of that ethereal chain;
And green vales open out, with grove and field,
And the fair front of many a happy Home;
Such tempting spots as into vision come
While Soldiers, weary of the arms they wield
And sick at heart of strifeful Christendom,
Gaze on the moon by parting clouds revealed.
Barthelemon At Vauxhall
by Thomas Hardy

Francois Hippolite Barthelemon, first-fiddler at Vauxhall Gardens,
composed what was probably the most popular morning hymn-tune ever
written. It was formerly sung, full-voiced, every Sunday in most
churches, to Bishop Ken's words, but is now seldom heard.
He said: "Awake my soul, and with the sun," . . .
And paused upon the bridge, his eyes due east,
Where was emerging like a full-robed priest
The irradiate globe that vouched the dark as done.
It lit his face the weary face of one
Who in the adjacent gardens charged his string,
Nightly, with many a tuneful tender thing,
Till stars were weak, and dancing hours outrun.
And then were threads of matin music spun
In trial tones as he pursued his way:
"This is a morn," he murmured, "well begun:
This strain to Ken will count when I am clay!"
And count it did; till, caught by echoing lyres,
It spread to galleried naves and mighty quires.
Upon Franck.
by Robert Herrick

Franck would go scour her teeth; and setting to 't
Twice two fell out, all rotten at the root.
Frederick And Alice
by Walter Scott (Sir)

Frederick leaves the land of France,
Homeward hastes his steps to measure,
Careless casts the parting glance
On the scene of former pleasure.
Joying in his prancing steed,
Keen to prove his untried blade,
Hope's gay dreams the soldier lead
Over mountain, moor, and glade.
Helpless, ruin'd, left forlorn,
Lovely Alice wept alone;
Mourn'd o'er love's fond contract torn,
Hope, and peace, and honour flown.
Mark her breast's convulsive throbs!
See, the tear of anguish flows!
Mingling soon with bursting sobs,
Loud the laugh of frenzy rose.
Wild she cursed, and wild she pray'd;
Seven long days and nights are o'er;
Death in pity brought his aid,
As the village bell struck four.
Far from her, and far from France,
Faithless Frederick onward rides;
Marking, blithe, the morning's glance
Mantling o'er the mountain's sides.
Heard ye not the boding sound,
As the tongue of yonder tower,
Slowly, to the hills around,
Told the fourth, the fated hour?
Starts the steed, and snuffs the air,
Yet no cause of dread appears;
Bristles high the rider's hair,
Struck with strange mysterious fears.
Desperate, as his terror rise,
In the steed the spur he hides;
From himself in vain he flies;
Anxious, restless, on he rides.
Seven long days, and seven long nights,
Wild he wander'd, woe the wile!
Ceaseless care, and causeless fright,
Urge his footsteps many a mile.
Dark the seventh sad night descends:
Rivers swell, and rain-streams pour;
While the deafening thunder lends
All the terrors of its roar.
Weary, wet, and spent with toil,
Where his head shall Frederick hide?
Where, but in yon ruin'd aisle,
By the lightning's flash descried.
To the portal, dank and low,
Fast his steed the wanderer bound:
Down a ruin'd staircase slow,
Next his darkling way he wound.
Long drear vaults before him lie!
Glimmering lights are seen to glide!
"Blessed Mary, hear my cry!
Deign a sinner's steps to guide!"
Often lost their quivering beam,
Still the lights move slow before,
Till they rest their ghastly gleam
Right against an iron door.
Thundering voices from within,
Mix'd with peals of laughter, rose;
As they fell, a solemn strain
Lent its wild and wondrous close!
Midst the din, he seem'd to hear
Voice of friends, by death removed;
Well he knew that solemn air,
'Twas the lay that Alice loved.
Hark! for now a solemn knell
Four times on the still night broke;
Four times, at its deaden'd swell,
Echoes from the ruins spoke.
As the lengthen'd clangours die,
Slowly opes the iron door!
Straight a banquet met his eye,
But a funeral's form it wore!
Coffins for the seats extend;
All with black the board was spread;
Girt by parent, brother, friend,
Long since number'd with the dead!
Alice, in her grave-clothes bound,
Ghastly smiling, points a seat;
All arose, with thundering sound;
All the expected stranger greet.
High their meagre arms they wave,
Wild their notes of welcome swell;
"Welcome, traitor, to the grave!
Perjured, bid the light farewell!"
Punch Song.
by Friedrich Schiller

Four elements, joined in
Harmonious strife,
Shadow the world forth,
And typify life.
Into the goblet
The lemon's juice pour;
Acid is ever
Life's innermost core.
Now, with the sugar's
All-softening juice,
The strength of the acid
So burning reduce.
The bright sparkling water
Now pour in the bowl;
Water all-gently
Encircles the whole.
Let drops of the spirit
To join them now flow;
Life to the living
Naught else can bestow.
Drain it off quickly
Before it exhales;
Save when 'tis glowing,
The draught naught avails.
Free Men Of God
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Free men of God, the New Day breaks
In golden gleams across the sky;
The darkness of the night is past,
This is the Day of Victory.
For this our fathers strove,
In stern and fiery love--
That men to come should be
Born into liberty--
That all should be--as we are--Free!
Free men of God, gird up your loins,
And brace you for the final fight!
Strike home, strike home for Truth and Right!
--Yet bear yourselves as in His sight!
For this our fathers fought,
This with their lives they bought--
That you and I should be
Heirs of their liberty--
That all should be--as we are--Free!
Free men we are and so will be;
We claim free access unto Him,
Who widened all the bounds of life,
And us from bondage did redeem.
Let no man intervene,
Or draw a vail between
Us and our God, for He
Would have His people free,--
And we would be--as Thou art--Free.
Free men of God, your Birthright claim!
Our fathers won it with a price.
They paid in full to axe and flame,
Nor counted up the sacrifice.
This is our heritage,
And here we do engage,
Each man unto his son
Intact to pass it on.
So shall they be--as we are--Free!
Our Sure Defence, in times of stress,
Thy gates stand open, wide and free,
When men provoke and wrongs oppress,
We seek Thy wider liberty.
With loftier mind and heart,
Let each man bear his part!
So--to the final fight,
And God defend the right!
We shall, we must, we will be--Free!
Frae The Friends And Land I Love.
by Robert Burns

Air - "Carron Side."
I.
Frae the friends and land I love,
Driv'n by fortune's felly spite,
Frae my best belov'd I rove,
Never mair to taste delight;
Never mair maun hope to find,
Ease frae toil, relief frae care:
When remembrance wracks the mind,
Pleasures but unveil despair.
II.
Brightest climes shall mirk appear,
Desert ilka blooming shore,
Till the Fates, nae mair severe,
Friendship, love, and peace restore;
Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head,
Bring our banish'd hame again;
And ilka loyal bonnie lad
Cross the seas and win his ain.
The Four Lakes Of Madison
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Four limpid lakes,--four Naiades
Or sylvan deities are these,
In flowing robes of azure dressed;
Four lovely handmaids, that uphold
Their shining mirrors, rimmed with gold,
To the fair city in the West.
By day the coursers of the sun
Drink of these waters as they run
Their swift diurnal round on high;
By night the constellations glow
Far down the hollow deeps below,
And glimmer in another sky.
Fair lakes, serene and full of light,
Fair town, arrayed in robes of white,
How visionary ye appear!
All like a floating landscape seems
In cloud-land or the land of dreams,
Bathed in a golden atmosphere!
A Maid Who Died Old
by Madison Julius Cawein

Frail, shrunken face, so pinched and worn,
That life has carved with care and doubt!
So weary waiting, night and morn,
For that which never came about!
Pale lamp, so utterly forlorn,
In which God's light at last is out.
Gray hair, that lies so thin and prim
On either side the sunken brows!
And soldered eyes, so deep and dim,
No word of man could now arouse!
And hollow hands, so virgin slim,
Forever clasped in silent vows!
Poor breasts! that God designed for love,
For baby lips to kiss and press;
That never felt, yet dreamed thereof,
The human touch, the child caress - 
That lie like shriveled blooms above
The heart's long-perished happiness.
O withered body, Nature gave
For purposes of death and birth,
That never knew, and could but crave
Those things perhaps that make life worth, - 
Rest now, alas! within the grave,
Sad shell that served no end of Earth.
In Memoriam. - Mrs. Morris Collins,
by Lydia Howard Sigourney

Died at Hartford, May 19th, 1862.
Frail stranger at the gate of life,
Too weak to grasp its key,
O'er whom the Sun on car of gold
Hath but a few times risen and roll'd,
Unnoticed still by thee,--
To whom the toil of breath is new,
In this our vale of time
Whose feet are yet unskill'd to tread
The grassy carpet round thee spread
At the soft, vernal prime,--
Deep sympathy and pitying care
Regard thy helpless moan,
And 'neath thy forehead arching high
Methinks, the brightly opening eye
Doth search for something gone.
Yon slumberer 'mid the snowy flowers,
With young, unfrosted hair,
Awakes not at the mournful sound
Of bird-like voices murmuring round
"Why sleeps our Mother there?"
Hers was that sunshine of the heart,
Which Home's fair region cheer'd,
Hers the upright, unselfish aim,
The fond response to duty's claim,
The faith that never fear'd.
Oh mystery! brooding oft so dark
O'er this our path below,
Not ours, with wild, repining sigh,
To ask the wherefore, or the why,
But drink our cup of woe.
So, in her shrouded beauty cold,
Yield to the earth its own,
Assured that Heaven will guard the trust,
Of that which may not turn to dust,
But dwells beside the Throne.
Ballade Made In The Hot Weather - To C. M.
by William Ernest Henley

Fountains that frisk and sprinkle
The moss they overspill;
Pools that the breezes crinkle;
The wheel beside the mill,
With its wet, weedy frill;
Wind-shadows in the wheat;
A water-cart in the street;
The fringe of foam that girds
An islet's ferneries;
A green sky's minor thirds -
To live, I think of these!
Of ice and glass the tinkle,
Pellucid, silver-shrill;
Peaches without a wrinkle;
Cherries and snow at will,
From china bowls that fill
The senses with a sweet
Incuriousness of heat;
A melon's dripping sherds;
Cream-clotted strawberries;
Dusk dairies set with curds -
To live, I think of these!
Vale-lily and periwinkle;
Wet stone-crop on the sill;
The look of leaves a-twinkle
With windlets clear and still;
The feel of a forest rill
That wimples fresh and fleet
About one's naked feet;
The muzzles of drinking herds;
Lush flags and bulrushes;
The chirp of rain-bound birds -
To live, I think of these!
Envoy
Dark aisles, new packs of cards,
Mermaidens' tails, cool swards,
Dawn dews and starlit seas,
White marbles, whiter words -
To live, I think of these!
France
by Edgar Lee Masters

France fallen! France arisen! France of the brave!
France of lost hopes! France of Promethean zeal!
Napoleon's France, that bruised the despot's heel
Of Europe, while the feudal world did rave.
Thou France that didst burst through the rock-bound grave
Which Germany and England joined to seal,
And undismayed didst seek the human weal,
Through which thou couldst thyself and others save - 
The wreath of amaranth and eternal praise!
When every hand was 'gainst thee, so was ours.
Freedom remembers, and I can forget: - 
Great are we by the faith our past betrays,
And noble now the great Republic flowers
Incarnate with the soul of Lafayette.
At The Foot Of The Cross.
by Michelangelo di Lodovico Buonarroti Simoni

Scarco d' un' importuna.
Freed from a burden sore and grievous band,
Dear Lord, and from this wearying world untied,
Like a frail bark I turn me to Thy side,
As from a fierce storm to a tranquil land.
Thy thorns, Thy nails, and either bleeding hand,
With Thy mild gentle piteous face, provide
Promise of help and mercies multiplied,
And hope that yet my soul secure may stand.
Let not Thy holy eyes be just to see
My evil past, Thy chastened ears to hear
And stretch the arm of judgment to my crime:
Let Thy blood only lave and succour me,
Yielding more perfect pardon, better cheer,
As older still I grow with lengthening time.
On A Very Old Glass At Market-Hill
by Jonathan Swift

Frail glass! thou mortal art as well as I;
Though none can tell which of us first shall die.
ANSWERED EXTEMPORE BY DR. SWIFT
We both are mortal; but thou, frailer creature,
May'st die, like me, by chance, but not by nature.
Nursery Rhyme. CCCLVII. Games.
by Unknown

[A game of the fox.]
Fox a fox, a brummalary,
How many miles to Lummaflary? Lummabary.
A.    Eight and eight, and a hundred and eight.
How shall I get home to night?
A.    Spin your legs, and run fast.
Eton: an Ode
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

For the four hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the Foundation of the College
I
Four hundred summers and fifty have shone on the meadows of Thames and died
Since Eton arose in an age that was darkness, and shone by his radiant side
As a star that the spell of a wise man's word bade live and ascend and abide.
And ever as time's flow brightened, a river more dark than the storm-clothed sea,
And age upon age rose fairer and larger in promise of hope set free,
With England Eton her child kept pace as a fostress of men to be.
And ever as earth waxed wiser, and softer the beating of time's wide wings,
Since fate fell dark on her father, most hapless and gentlest of star-crossed kings,
Her praise has increased as the chant of the dawn that the choir of the noon outsings.
II
Storm and cloud in the skies were loud, and lightning mocked at the blind sun's light;
War and woe on the land below shed heavier shadow than falls from night;
Dark was earth at her dawn of birth as here her record of praise is bright.
Clear and fair through her morning air the light first laugh of the sunlit stage
Rose and rang as a fount that sprang from depths yet dark with a spent storm's rage,
Loud and glad as a boy's, and bade the sunrise open on Shakespeare's age.
Lords of state and of war, whom fate found strong in battle, in counsel strong,
Here, ere fate had approved them great, abode their season, and thought not long:
Here too first was the lark's note nursed that filled and flooded the skies with song.
III
Shelley, lyric lord of England's lordliest singers, here first heard
Ring from lips of poets crowned and dead the Promethean word
Whence his soul took fire, and power to outsoar the sunward-soaring bird.
Still the reaches of the river, still the light on field and hill,
Still the memories held aloft as lamps for hope's young fire to fill,
Shine, and while the light of England lives shall shine for England still.
When four hundred more and fifty years have risen and shone and set,
Bright with names that men remember, loud with names that men forget,
Haply here shall Eton's record be what England finds it yet.
Upon Franck.
by Robert Herrick

Franck ne'er wore silk she swears; but I reply,
She now wears silk to hide her blood-shot eye.
Four Winds
by Sara Teasdale

"Four winds blowing through the sky,
You have seen poor maidens die,
Tell me then what I shall do
That my lover may be true."
Said the wind from out the south,
"Lay no kiss upon his mouth,"
And the wind from out the west,
"Wound the heart within his breast,"
And the wind from out the east,
"Send him empty from the feast,"
And the wind from out the north,
"In the tempest thrust him forth;
When thou art more cruel than he,
Then will Love be kind to thee."