DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The White Maiden And The Indian Girl.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

"Child of the Woods, bred in leafy dell,
See the palace home in which I dwell,
With its lofty walls and casements wide,
And objects of beauty on every side;
Now, tell me, dost thou not think it bliss
To dwell in a home as bright as this?"
"Has my pale-faced sister never seen
My home in the pleasant forest green,
With the sunshine weaving its threads of gold
Through the boughs of elm and of maples old,
And soft green moss and wild flowers sweet,
What carpet more fitting for maidens' feet?"
"Well, see these diamonds of price untold,
These costly trinkets of burnished gold,
With rich soft robes - my daily wear - 
These graceful flower-wreaths for my hair;
And now, at least, thou must frankly tell
Thou would'st like such garb and jewels well."
"The White Lily surely speaks in jest,
For has she not seen me gaily dressed?
Bright beads and rich wampum belts are mine,
Which by far these paltry stones outshine,
Whilst heron plumes, fresh flowers and leaves,
Are fairer than scentless buds like these."
"But, Forest Maiden, to this my home
What sights - what sounds of beauty come;
Pictures of loveliness - paintings rare - 
All the charms that art can bestow are there,
With ravishing music of harp and song,
Sweet notes that to gifted souls belong."
"The wild birds sing in our shady trees,
Mingling their notes with the vesper breeze;
The flow of waters, the wind's low moan,
Have a music sweet that is all their own;
Whilst surely no tints or colors rare
Can with those of the sky and the wood compare."
"But what of the winter's cheerless gloom
When nature sleeps in a snowy tomb,
The storm clouds brooding over head,
Thy song-birds gone - thy wild-flowers dead?
With silence and gloom where'er you roam,
What then, what then, of your forest home?"
"We sing gay songs round our winter fires,
Or list the tales of our gray-haired sires;
When the hunting path has claimed our braves,
We pray to the God of winds and waves;
Or, on snow-shoes swift, we love to go
Over the fields of untrodden snow."
"Then, I cannot tempt thee here to dwell,
Oh! wayward child of the forest dell,
To leave thy wandering, restless life,
With countless dangers and hardships rife
For a home of splendor such as this,
Where thy days would be a dream of bliss?"
"No, sister, it cannot my heart engage,
I would worry to death of this gilded cage
And the high close walls of each darkened room,
Heavy with stifling, close perfume;
Back to the free, fresh woods let me hie,
Amid them to live, - amid them to die."
Translation
by Oliver Goldsmith

Chaste are their instincts, faithful is their fire,
No foreign beauty tempts to false desire;
The snow-white vesture, and the glittering crown,
The simple plumage, or the glossy down
Prompt not their loves: the patriot bird pursues
His well acquainted tints, and kindred hues.
Hence through their tribes no mix'd polluted flame,
No monster-breed to mark the groves with shame;
But the chaste blackbird, to its partner true,
Thinks black alone is beauty's favourite hue.
The nightingale, with mutual passion blest,
Sings to its mate, and nightly charms the nest;
While the dark owl to court its partner flies,
And owns its offspring in their yellow eyes.
Cheese Curd For Bait.
by James McIntyre

The following adventure was participated in by Mr. J. Podmore and Mr. W. D. Grant at Matheson's Cold Spring Cheese Factory in Zorra, 1888.
Cheese buyers in hours of leisure
Combine business with pleasure,
And when they wish to go abroad
They take their gun and fishing rod.
This tale is true we pledge our word,
They baited hook with a piece of curd,
And let the rod hang from the boat,
While curd and hook on pond did float.
And then they start for sport and fun,
To try their luck with the shot gun,
And quick they raised from their cover,
Then brought low eight brace of plover.
Now to the pond they do return,
But loss of rod they have to mourn,
They see it rushing through the water,
And wonder what can be the matter.
But the courage of young Grant,
It did not for a moment daunt,
Though rod it now is far beyond,
He plunged into deep, cold spring pond.
And seized his rod and then drew out
A beauteous seven pound trout,
Which had grown from the seed
From spawn of California breed.
And Californian in its greed,
On the sweet curd wished to feed;
But, alas, for it's sad fate,
It swallowed hook along with bait.
The Chimpanzee.
by Oliver Herford

CHIL-DREN, be-hold the Chim-pan-zee:
He sits on the an-ces-tral tree
From which we sprang in ag-es gone.
I'm glad we sprang: had we held on,
We might, for aught that I can say,
Be hor-rid Chim-pan-zees to-day.
Euterpe
by Henry Kendall

Child of Light, the bright, the bird-like! wilt thou float and float to me,
Facing winds and sleets and waters, flying glimpses of the sea?
Down amongst the hills of tempest, where the elves of tumult roam
Blown wet shadows of the summits, dim sonorous sprites of foam?
Here and here my days are wasted, shorn of leaf and stript of fruit:
Vexed because of speech half spoken, maiden with the marvellous lute!
Vexed because of songs half-shapen, smit with fire and mixed with pain:
Part of thee, and part of Sorrow, like a sunset pale with rain.
Child of Light, the bright, the bird-like! wilt thou float and float to me
Facing winds and sleets and waters, flying glimpses of the sea?
All night long, in fluent pauses, falling far, but full, but fine,
Faultless friend of flowers and fountains, do I hear that voice of thine
All night long, amidst the burden of the lordly storm, that sings
High above the tumbled forelands, fleet and fierce with thunderings!
Then and then, my love, Euterpe, lips of life replete with dreams
Murmur for thy sweet, sharp fragments dying down Lethean streams:
Murmur for thy mouth's marred music, splendid hints that burn and break,
Heavy with excess of beauty: murmur for thy music's sake.
All night long, in fluent pauses, falling far, but full, but fine,
Faultless friend of flowers and fountains, do I hear that voice of thine.
In the yellow flame of evening sound of thee doth come and go
Through the noises of the river, and the drifting of the snow:
In the yellow flame of evening at the setting of the day
Sound that lightens, falls and lightens, flickers, faints and fades away.
I am famished of thy silence broken for the tender note
Caught with its surpassing passion caught and strangled in thy throat!
We have nought to help thy trouble nought for that which lieth mute
On the harpstring and the lutestring and the spirit of the lute.
In the yellow flame of evening sound of thee doth come and go
Through the noises of the river, and the drifting of the snow.
Daughter of the dead red summers! Men that laugh and men that weep
Call thee Music shall I follow, choose their name, and turn and sleep?
What thou art, behold, I know not; but thy honey slakes and slays
Half the want which whitens manhood in the stress of alien days!
Even as a wondrous woman, struck with love and great desire,
Hast thou been to me, Euterpe! half of tears and half of fire.
But thy joy is swift and fitful; and a subtle sense of pain
Sighs through thy melodious breathing, takes the rapture from thy strain,
Daughter of the dead red summers! Men that laugh and men that weep
Call thee Music shall I follow, choose their name, and turn and sleep?
Bread And Cherries
by Walter De La Mare

'Cherries, ripe cherries!'
The old woman cried,
In her snowy white apron,
And basket beside;
And the little boys came,
Eyes shining, cheeks red,
To buy a bag of cherries,
To eat with their bread.
I'd Love To Be A Fairy's Child
by Robert von Ranke Graves

Children born of fairy stock
Never need for shirt or frock,
Never want for food or fire,
Always get their heart's desire:
Jingle pockets full of gold,
Marry when they're seven years old.
Every fairy child may keep
Two strong ponies and ten sheep;
All have houses, each his own,
Built of brick or granite stone;
They live on cherries, they run wild, 
I'd love to be a Fairy's child.
A Day-Dream's Reflection
by William Allingham

Chequer'd with woven shadows as I lay 
Among the grass, blinking the watery gleam, 
I saw an Echo-Spirit in his bay 
Most idly floating in the noontide beam. 
Slow heaved his filmy skiff, and fell, with sway 
Of ocean's giant pulsing, and the Dream, 
Buoyed like the young moon on a level stream 
Of greenish vapour at decline of day, 
Swam airily, watching the distant flocks 
Of sea-gulls, whilst a foot in careless sweep 
Touched the clear-trembling cool with tiny shocks, 
Faint-circling; till at last he dropt asleep, 
Lull'd by the hush-song of the glittering deep, 
Lap-lapping drowsily the heated rocks.
From Victor Hugo
by Thomas Hardy

Child, were I king, I'd yield my royal rule,
My chariot, sceptre, vassal-service due,
My crown, my porphyry-basined waters cool,
My fleets, whereto the sea is but a pool,
For a glance from you!
Love, were I God, the earth and its heaving airs,
Angels, the demons abject under me,
Vast chaos with its teeming womby lairs,
Time, space, all would I give - aye, upper spheres,
For a kiss from thee!
Donatello.
by Margaret Steele Anderson

Child of the North, within thy Northern eyes
How brood and burn the restless mysteries!
Blooded of Hellas, thy dark brows between,
That spray of antique laurel, how serene!
Memorials Of A Tour In Scotland, 1803 IX. Address To Kilchurn Castle, Upon Loch Awe
by William Wordsworth

Child of loud-throated War! the mountain Stream
Roars in thy hearing; but thy hour of rest
Is come, and thou art silent in thy age;
Save when the wind sweeps by and sounds are caught
Ambiguous, neither wholly thine nor theirs.
Oh! there is life that breathes not; Powers there are
That touch each other to the quick in modes
Which the gross world no sense hath to perceive,
No soul to dream of. What art Thou, from care
Cast off, abandoned by thy rugged Sire,
Nor by soft Peace adopted; though, in place
And in dimension, such that thou might'st seem
But a mere footstool to yon sovereign Lord,
Huge Cruachan, (a thing that meaner hills
Might crush, nor know that it had suffered harm;)
Yet he, not loth, in favour of thy claims
To reverence, suspends his own; submitting
All that the God of Nature hath conferred,
All that he holds in common with the stars,
To the memorial majesty of Time
Impersonated in thy calm decay!
Take, then, thy seat, Vicegerent unreproved!
Now, while a farewell gleam of evening light
Is fondly lingering on thy shattered front,
Do thou, in turn, be paramount; and rule
Over the pomp and beauty of a scene
Whose mountains, torrents, lake, and woods, unite
To pay thee homage; and with these are joined,
In willing admiration and respect,
Two Hearts, which in thy presence might be called
Youthful as Spring. Shade of departed Power,
Skeleton of unfleshed humanity,
The chronicle were welcome that should call
Into the compass of distinct regard
The toils and struggles of thy infant years!
Yon foaming flood seems motionless as ice;
Its dizzy turbulence eludes the eye,
Frozen by distance; so, majestic Pile,
To the perception of this Age, appear
Thy fierce beginnings, softened and subdued
And quieted in character, the strife,
The pride, the fury uncontrollable,
Lost on the aerial heights of the Crusades!
Cherry Ripe
by Robert Herrick

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones; come, and buy:
If so be you ask me where
They do grow? I answer, there
Where my Julia's lips do smile;
There's the land, or cherry-isle;
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.
Mon-Daw-Min ; Or, The Origin Of The Indian-Corn.
by John Campbell

Cherry bloom and green buds bursting
Fleck the azure skies;
In the spring wood, hungering, thirsting,
Faint an Indian lies.
To behold his guardian spirit
Fasts the dusky youth;
Prays that thus he may inherit
Warrior strength and truth.
Weak he grows, the war-path gory
Seems a far delight;
Now he scans the flowers, whose glory
Is not won by fight.
"Hunger kills me; see my arrow
Bloodless lies: I ask,
If life's doom be grave-pit narrow,
Deathless make its task.
"For man's welfare guide my being,
So I shall not die
Like the flow'rets, fading, fleeing,
When the snow is nigh.
"Medicine from the plants we borrow,
Salves from many a leaf;
May they not kill hunger's sorrow,
Give with food relief?"
Suddenly a spirit shining
From the sky came down,
Green his mantle, floating, twining,
Gold his feather crown.
"I have heard thy thought unspoken;
Famous thou shall be;
Though no scalp shall be the token,
Men shall speak of thee.
"Bravely borne, men's heaviest burden
Ever lighter lies;
Wrestling with me, win the guerdon;
Gain thy wish, arise!"
Now he rises, and, prevailing,
Hears the angel say:
"Strong in weakness, never failing,
Strive yet one more day.
"Now again I come, and find thee
Yet with courage high,
So that, though my arms can bind thee,
Victor thou, not I.
"Hark! to-morrow, conquering, slay me,
Blest shall be thy toil:
After wrestling, strip me, lay me
Sleeping in the soil.
"Visit oft the place; above me
Root out weeds and grass;
Fast no more; obeying, love me;
Watch what comes to pass."
Waiting through the long day dreary,
Still he hungers on;
Once more wrestling, weak and weary,
Still the fight is won.
Stripped of robes and golden feather,
Buried lies the guest:
Summer's wonder-working weather
Warms his place of rest.
Ever his commands fulfilling,
Mourns his victor friend,
Fearing, with a heart unwilling,
To have known the end.
No! upon the dark mould fallow
Shine bright blades of green;
Rising, spreading, plumes of yellow
O'er their sheaves are seen.
Higher than a mortal's stature
Soars the corn in pride;
Seeing it, he knows that Nature
There stands deified.
"'Tis my friend," he cries, "the guerdon
Fast and prayer have won;
Want is past, and hunger's burden
Soon shall torture none."
Braggadocio
by Paul Cameron Brown

Chess playing Death
-    no, the reverse
Death sitting decked out and self-satisfied
in black no mandatory top hat but a shroud
shouldering a cowl.
There stereotypes end    - 
appearances have to be kept up
tho' hardly any cinematic gnarled fingers
of Baron Samedi fame
rather pudgy digitals reflecting
gentile prosperity
(after all, Winners do take all
his fellow satanists bank on it).
Of course, such things are fictitious.
Death plays no favourites (and waits
for no man when rivalling Time).
Still, parlour games are one indulgence.
Hardly comforting to know human beings
function at one purpose
when this Hallow of Hallows puts on the smirk.
Dalliance with the victim is the upshot    - 
the chess motif again.
Sift thru the chicken bones a mite    - 
let the chump stir the rubble of his dreams.
Something of gallow's humour or gangster largesse.
Offer a stiff drink (brandy will do), one last cigarette.
Then, too, for beaten gladiators toiling bravely the
apparent rewards accelerate. Truckloads of flowers
at the funeral, for instance. Preferential treatment for
the guise or mercy must be kept up.
All lies in appearances. Prepare the feast. Sit the
guest of honour on a splendid cushion, then serve up
dish after sumptious dish.
Dining splendidly on one's own children
unbeknownst is a favourite    -    maddens the victim no end.
Brief success turning to bitter sawdust is the supreme
moment of ecstasy. Serves precisely as metaphoric
extension of all earthly reward as illusionary. (A
delicious ruse borrowed shamelessly from fellow
representatives on Earth    - the Sicilian Mafia.)
Further spin-offs centre about the Absurd But spare
us juvenile intrigue with petty omens like a bird loose
in the house. Rather, a swift check-mate served up in
the best Grandmaster tradition is more a propos.
Therein lies the jest.
Workaholics and their polar opposites, the dead lazy.
effortlessly come around. When realization hits home
all distinctions blur. No difference. Sharp laughter
unceremoniously greets even the self-composed.
Especially intriguing are the ambitious. Endless quirks really.
Concerted mockery recreates further patterns of futility.
Basic strategy remains unchanged, though. Disguise is paramount.
Dress her in robes of tarter gray,
implant a slight smile, then beckon
from around each corner.
Create a maze, but attractive-like with flower pots.
Faint knockings behind every door. A cooling breeze overhead.
Genuine affability like an open air Swiss cottage in a summer meadow.
The greater the false hope, the greater the final squirming.
Funny stuff, for even Death at one remote corner of his
being partakes in occasional mirth (why not, with his
monopoly intact on everything else).
Hawthorne.
by Margaret Steele Anderson

Child, lover, servant, master of Romance,
To you she showed, not splendid of attire,
With gaud and grace, but all to your desire
In lonelier hues of solemn radiance!
Long years you followed her, and at her glance,
As at some word, divinely sweet or dire,
Beheld the souls of men, in shapes of fire,
Through veiling flesh look out to her askance.
You saw the brand upon unbranded breast;
From evil heart you saw the witches wind;
You saw dark passion breed in frolic youth;
And yet, with sight all delicate and blest,
You knew the primrose of a maiden's mind,
You took of shame the grave white flower of truth!
The River Duddon - A Series Of Sonnets, 1820. - II - Child Of The Clouds!
by William Wordsworth

Child of the clouds! remote from every taint
Of sordid industry thy lot is cast;
Thine are the honours of the lofty waste
Not seldom, when with heat the valleys faint,
Thy handmaid Frost with spangled tissue quaint
Thy cradle decks; to chant thy birth, thou hast
No meaner Poet than the whistling Blast,
And Desolation is thy Patron-saint!
She guards thee, ruthless Power! who would not spare
Those mighty forests, once the bison's screen,
Where stalked the huge deer to his shaggy lair
Through paths and alleys roofed with darkest green;
Thousands of years before the silent air
Was pierced by whizzing shaft of hunter keen!
The Skeleton
by Gilbert Keith Chesterton

Chattering finch and water-fly
Are not merrier than I;
Here among the flowers I lie
Laughing everlastingly.
No: I may not tell the best;
Surely, friends, I might have guessed
Death was but the good King's jest,
It was hid so carefully.
Child Of A Day
by Walter Savage Landor

Child of a day, thou knowest not
The tears that overflow thy urn,
The gushing eyes that read thy lot,
Nor, if thou knewest, couldst return!
And why the wish! the pure and blest
Watch like thy mother o'er thy sleep.
O peaceful night! O envied rest!
Thou wilt not ever see her weep.
A Song Of Cheer
by Madison Julius Cawein

Cheer, though you part at morn!
Cheer, though you never part:
Sigh not, nor look forlorn;
Never lose heart!
For, to the hope you don,
Face that your soul puts on,
Whether in sun or storm,
Will the world's face conform.
Sing from the start.
Never lose heart.
Pondicherry
by Paul Cameron Brown

Chess pieces resting upon the jade
mantle piece
see sampans move quietly
thru warm night,
rich bundles of bougainvillea
crowd market squares
where deck chairs extend
to the Persian Gulf.
Leisured gentlemen
finger walking canes,
hold eyelids thick as goblets,
sharp tridents beside private lairs.
Skin in puffy whiteness bulges under
lamp's white glare, becomes copra
gathered
miles from Pondicherry, sesame oil
in rotting casks.
And the Indian heat, closing with
certitude
akin to the trance of the snake
charmer,
holds his flute poised with the
Bengali lancer
riding a slow crop over the prostrate
polo ball.
Imperial Revels.
by Victor-Marie Hugo

("Courtisans! attabl's dans le splendide orgie.")
[Bk. I. x., Jersey, December, 1852.]
Cheer, courtiers! round the banquet spread - 
The board that groans with shame and plate,
Still fawning to the sham-crowned head
That hopes front brazen turneth fate!
Drink till the comer last is full,
And never hear in revels' lull,
Grim Vengeance forging arrows fleet,
Whilst I gnaw at the crust
Of Exile in the dust - 
But Honor makes it sweet!
Ye cheaters in the tricksters' fane,
Who dupe yourself and trickster-chief,
In blazing caf's spend the gain,
But draw the blind, lest at his thief
Some fresh-made beggar gives a glance
And interrupts with steel the dance!
But let him toilsomely tramp by,
As I myself afar
Follow no gilded car
In ways of Honesty.
Ye troopers who shot mothers down,
And marshals whose brave cannonade
Broke infant arms and split the stone
Where slumbered age and guileless maid - 
Though blood is in the cup you fill,
Pretend it "rosy" wine, and still
Hail Cannon "King!" and Steel the "Queen!"
But I prefer to sup
From Philip Sidney's cup - 
True soldier's draught serene.
Oh, workmen, seen by me sublime,
When from the tyrant wrenched ye peace,
Can you be dazed by tinselled crime,
And spy no wolf beneath the fleece?
Build palaces where Fortunes feast,
And bear your loads like well-trained beast,
Though once such masters you made flee!
But then, like me, you ate
Food of a blessed f'te - 
The bread of Liberty!
H.L.W.
Chevalita
by Louisa May Alcott

"Chevalita,
Pretty cretr,
I do love her
Like a brother;
Just to ride
Is my delight,
For she does not
Kick or bite,"
Lines On Seeing A Lock Of Milton's Hair
by John Keats

Chief of organic Numbers!
Old Scholar of the Spheres!
Thy spirit never slumbers,
But rolls about our ears
For ever and for ever.
O, what a mad endeavour
Worketh he
Who, to thy sacred and ennobled hearse,
Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse
And Melody!
How heavenward thou soundedst
Live Temple of sweet noise;
And discord unconfoundedst:
Giving delight new joys,
And Pleasure nobler pinions
O where are thy Dominions!
Lend thine ear
To a young delian oath aye, by thy soul,
By all that from thy mortal Lips did roll;
And by the Kernel of thine earthly Love,
Beauty, in things on earth and things above,
When every childish fashion
Has vanish'd from my rhyme
Will I grey-gone in passion
Give to an after-time
Hymning and harmony
Of thee, and of thy Words and of thy Life:
But vain is now the bruning and the strife
Pangs are in vain until I grow high-rife
With Old Philosophy
And mad with glimpses at futurity!
For many years my offerings must be hush'd:
When I do speak I'll think upon this hour,
Because I feel my forehead hot and flush'd,
Even at the simplest vassal of thy Power,
A Lock of thy bright hair!
Sudden it came,
And I was startled when I heard thy name
Coupled so unaware
Yet, at the moment, temperate was my blood:
Methought I had beheld it from the flood.
Comparisons
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Child, when they say that others
Have been or are like you,
Babes fit to be your brothers,
Sweet human drops of dew,
Bright fruit of mortal mothers,
What should one say or do?
We know the thought is treason,
We feel the dream absurd;
A claim rebuked of reason,
That withers at a word:
For never shone the season
That bore so blithe a bird.
Some smiles may seem as merry,
Some glances gleam as wise,
From lips as like a cherry
And scarce less gracious eyes;
Eyes browner than a berry,
Lips red as morning's rise.
But never yet rang laughter
So sweet in gladdened ears
Through wall and floor and rafter
As all this household hears
And rings response thereafter
Till cloudiest weather clears.
When those your chosen of all men,
Whose honey never cloys,
Two lights whose smiles enthrall men,
Were called at your age boys,
Those mighty men, while small men,
Could make no merrier noise.
Our Shakespeare, surely, daffed not
More lightly pain aside
From radiant lips that quaffed not
Of forethought's tragic tide:
Our Dickens, doubtless, laughed not
More loud with life's first pride.
The dawn were not more cheerless
With neither light nor dew
Than we without the fearless
Clear laugh that thrills us through:
If ever child stood peerless,
Love knows that child is you