DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Songs Set To Music: 24. Set By Mr. C. R.
by Matthew Prior

Cloe beauty has, and wit,
And an air that is not common;
Every charm in her does meet,
Fit to make a handsome woman.
But we do not only find
Here a lovely face or feature,
For she's merciful and kind;
Beauty's answer'd by good-nature.
She is always doing good,
Of her favours never sparing,
And, as all good Christians should,
Keeps poor mortals from despairing.
Jove the power knew of her charms,
And that no man could endure 'em,
So providing 'gainst all harms,
Gave to her the power to cure 'em,
And 'twould be a cruel thing,
When her black eyes have raised desire,
Should she not her bucket bring,
And kindly help to quench the fire.
Chicken
by Walter De La Mare

Clapping her platter stood plump Bess,
And all across the green
Came scampering in, on wing and claw,
Chicken fat and lean:
Dorking, Spaniard, Cochin China,
Bantams sleek and small,
Like feathers blown in a great wind,
They came at Bessie's call.
The City That Will Not Repent
by Vachel Lindsay

Climbing the heights of Berkeley
Nightly I watch the West.
There lies new San Francisco,
Sea-maid in purple dressed,
Wearing a dancer's girdle
All to inflame desire:
Scorning her days of sackcloth,
Scorning her cleansing fire.
See, like a burning city
Sets now the red sun's dome.
See, mystic firebrands sparkle
There on each store and home.
See how the golden gateway
Burns with the day to be - 
Torch-bearing fiends of portent
Loom o'er the earth and sea.
Not by the earthquake daunted
Nor by new fears made tame,
Painting her face and laughing
Plays she a new-found game.
Here on her half-cool cinders
'Frisco abides in mirth,
Planning the wildest splendor
Ever upon the earth.
Here on this crumbling rock-ledge
'Frisco her all will stake,
Blowing her bubble-towers,
Swearing they will not break,
Rearing her Fair transcendent,
Singing with piercing art,
Calling to Ancient Asia,
Wooing young Europe's heart.
Here where her God has scourged her
Wantoning, singing sweet:
Waiting her mad bad lovers
Here by the judgment-seat!
'Frisco, God's doughty foeman,
Scorns and blasphemes him strong.
Tho' he again should smite her
She would not slack her song.
Nay, she would shriek and rally - 
'Frisco would ten times rise!
Not till her last tower crumbles,
Not till her last rose dies,
Not till the coast sinks seaward,
Not till the cold tides beat
Over the high white Shasta,
'Frisco will cry defeat.
God loves this rebel city,
Loves foemen brisk and game,
Tho', just to please the angels,
He may send down his flame.
God loves the golden leopard
Tho' he may spoil her lair.
God smites, yet loves the lion.
God makes the panther fair.
Dance then, wild guests of 'Frisco,
Yellow, bronze, white and red!
Dance by the golden gateway - 
Dance, tho' he smite you dead!
Clear The Way!
by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Clear the way, my lords and lackeys! you have had your day.
Here you have your answer'England's yea against your nay:
Long enough your house has held you: up, and clear the way!
Lust and falsehood, craft and traffic, precedent and gold,
Tongue of courtier, kiss of harlot, promise bought and sold,
Gave you heritage of empire over thralls of old.
Now that all these things are rotten, all their gold is rust,
Quenched the pride they lived by, dead the faith and cold the lust,
Shall their heritage not also turn again to dust?
By the grace of these they reigned, who left their sons their sway:
By the grace of these, what England says her lords unsay:
Till at last her cry go forth against them'Clear the way!
By the grace of trust in treason knaves have lived and lied:
By the force of fear and folly fools have fed their pride:
By the strength of sloth and custom reason stands defied.
Lest perchance your reckoning on some latter day be worse,
Halt and hearken, lords of land and princes of the purse,
Ere the tide be full that comes with blessing and with curse.
Where we stand; as where you sit, scarce falls a sprinkling spray;
But the wind that swells, the wave that follows, none shall stay:
Spread no more of sail for shipwreck: out, and clear the way!
City Of Orgies
by Walt Whitman

City of orgies, walks and joys!
City whom that I have lived and sung in your midst will one day make you illustrious,
Not the pageants of you--not your shifting tableaux, your spectacles, repay me;
Not the interminable rows of your houses--nor the ships at the wharves,
Nor the processions in the streets, nor the bright windows, with goods in them;
Nor to converse with learn'd persons, or bear my share in the soiree or feast;
Not those--but, as I pass, O Manhattan! your frequent and swift flash of eyes offering me love,
Offering response to my own--these repay me;
Lovers, continual lovers, only repay me.
The Colubriad.
by William Cowper

Close by the threshold of a door nail'd fast
Three kittens sat; each kitten look'd aghast.
I, passing swift and inattentive by,
At the three kittens cast a careless eye;
Not much concern'd to know what they did there;
Not deeming kittens worth a poet's care.
But presently a loud and furious hiss
Caused me to stop and to exclaim, 'What's this?'
When lo! upon the threshold met my view
With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue,
A viper long as Count de Grasse's queue.
Forth from his head his forked tongue he throws,
Darting it full against a kitten's nose;
Who, having never seen, in field or house,
The like, sat still and silent as a mouse;
Only projecting with attention due,
Her whisker'd face, she asked him, 'Who are you?'
On to the hall went I, with pace not slow,
But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe:
With which well arm'd I hasten'd to the spot,
To find the viper, but I found him not.
And, turning up the leaves and shrubs around,
Found only that he was not to be found.
But still the kittens, sitting as before,
Sat watching close the bottom of the door.
'I hope, ' said I, 'the villain I would kill
Has slipp'd between the door and the door-sill;
And if I make despatch, and follow hard,
No doubt but I shall find him in the yard:'
For long ere now it should have been rehearsed,
'Twas in the garden that I found him first.
E'en there I found him, there the full-grown cat,
His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat;
As curious as the kittens erst had been
To learn what this phenomenon might mean.
Fill'd with heroic ardour at the sight,
And fearing every moment he would bite,
And rob our household of our only cat
That was of age to combat with a rat;
With outstretch'd hoe I slew him at the door,
And taught him never to come there no more.
City Of Ships
by Walt Whitman

City of ships!
(O the black ships! O the fierce ships!
O the beautiful, sharp-bow'd steam-ships and sail-ships!)
City of the world! (for all races are here;
All the lands of the earth make contributions here;)
City of the sea! city of hurried and glittering tides!
City whose gleeful tides continually rush or recede, whirling in and out, with eddies and foam!
City of wharves and stores! city of tall fa'ades of marble and iron!
Proud and passionate city! mettlesome, mad, extravagant city!
Spring up, O city! not for peace alone, but be indeed yourself, warlike!
Fear not! submit to no models but your own, O city!
Behold me! incarnate me, as I have incarnated you!
I have rejected nothing you offer'd me--whom you adopted, I have adopted;
Good or bad, I never question you--I love all--I do not condemn anything;
I chant and celebrate all that is yours--yet peace no more;
In peace I chanted peace, but now the drum of war is mine;
War, red war, is my song through your streets, O city!
Against Oblivion
by Henry John Newbolt, Sir

Cities drowned in olden time
Keep, they say, a magic chime
Rolling up from far below
When the moon-led waters flow.
So within me, ocean deep,
Lies a sunken world asleep.
Lest its bells forget to ring,
Memory! set the tide a-swing!
From Egmont.
by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

ACT I.
Clara winds a skein, and sings with Brackenburg.
THE drum gives the signal!
Loud rings the shrill fife!
My love leads his troops on
Full arm'd for the strife,
While his hand grasps his lance
As they proudly advance.
My bosom pants wildly!
My blood hotly flows!
Oh had I a doublet,
A helmet, and hose!
Through the gate with bold footstep
I after him hied,
Each province, each country
Explored by his side.
The coward foe trembled
Then rattled our shot:
What bliss e'er resembled
A soldier's glad lot!
ACT III.
CLARA sings.
Gladness
And sadness
And pensiveness blending
Yearning
And burning
In torment ne'er ending;
Sad unto death,
Proudly soaring above;
Happy alone
Is the soul that doth love!
FROM "WILHELM MEISTER'S APPRENTICESHIP."
BOOK II., CHAP. XIII.
WHO never eat with tears his bread,
Who never through night's heavy hours
Sat weeping on his lonely bed,
He knows you not, ye heavenly powers!
Through you the paths of life we gain,
Ye let poor mortals go astray,
And then abandon them to pain,
E'en here the penalty we pay,
-
WHO gives himself to solitude,
Soon lonely will remain;
Each lives, each loves in joyous mood,
And leaves him to his pain.
Yes! leave me to my grief!
Were solitude's relief
E'er granted me,
Alone I should not be.
A lover steals, on footstep light,
To learn if his love's alone;
Thus o'er me steals, by day and night,
Anguish before unknown,
Thus o'er me steals deep grief.
Ah, when I find relief
Within the tomb so lonely,
Will rest be met with only!
-
BOOK IV., CHAP. XI.
My grief no mortals know,
Except the yearning!
Alone, a prey to woe,
All pleasure spurning,
Up tow'rds the sky I throw
A gaze discerning.
He who my love can know
Seems ne'er returning;
With strange and fiery glow
My heart is burning.
My grief no mortals know,
Except the yearning!
-
BOOK V., CHAP. X.
SING no more in mournful tones
Of the loneliness of night;
For 'tis made, ye beauteous ones,
For all social pleasures bright.
As of old to man a wife
As his better half was given,
So the night is half our life,
And the fairest under heaven.
How can ye enjoy the day,
Which obstructs our rapture's tide?
Let it waste itself away;
Worthless 'tis for aught beside.
But when in the darkling hours
From the lamp soft rays are glowing,
And from mouth to mouth sweet showers,
Now of jest, now love, are flowing,
When the nimble, wanton boy,
Who so wildly spends his days,
Oft amid light sports with joy
O'er some trifling gift delays,'
When the nightingale is singing
Strains the lover holds so dear,
Though like sighs and wailings ringing
In the mournful captive's ear,
With what heart-emotion blest
Do ye hearken to the bell,
Wont of safety and of rest
With twelve solemn strokes to tell!
Therefore in each heavy hour,
Let this precept fill your heart:
O'er each day will sorrow loud,
Rapture ev'ry night impart.
The Seven Old Man
by Charles Baudelaire

City of swarming, city full of dreams
Where ghosts in daylight tug the stroller's sleeve!
Mysteries everywhere run like the sap
That fills this great colossus' conduits.
One morning, while along the sombre street
The houses, rendered taller by the mist,
Seemed to be towering wharves at riverside,
And while (our stage-set like the actor's soul)
A dirty yellow steam filled all the space,
I followed, with a hero's iron nerve
To set against my spirit's lassitude,
The district streets shaken by rumbling carts.
Then, an old man whose yellowed rags
Were imitations of the rainy sky,
At whose sight charity might have poured down,
Without the evil glitter in his eyes,
Appeared quite suddenly to me. I'd say
His eye was steeped in gall; his glance was sharp
As frost, his shaggy beard, stiff as a sword,
Stood out, and Judas came into my mind.
You would not call him bent, but cut in two
His spine made a right angle with his legs
So neatly that his cane, the final touch,
Gave him the figure and the clumsy step
Of some sick beast, or a three-legged Jew.
In snow and filth he made his heavy way,
As if his old shoes trampled on the dead
In hatred, not indifference to life.
His double followed: beard, eye, back, stick, rags,
No separate traits, and come from the same hell.
This second ancient man, baroque, grotesque,
Trod with the same step towards their unknown goal.
To what conspiracy was I exposed,
What wicked chance humiliated me?
For one by one I counted seven times
Multiples of this sinister old man!
Those who would laugh at my frenetic state,
Who are not seized by a fraternal chill,
Must ponder that, despite their feebleness,
These monsters smacked of all eternity!
Could I still live and look upon the eighth
Relentless twin, fatal, disgusting freak,
Trick Phoenix, son and father of himself?
I turned my back on this parade from Hell.
Bedazzled, like a double-visioned drunk,
I staggered home and shut the door, aghast,
Shaking and sick, the spirit feverous,
Struck by this mystery, this absurdity!
Vainly my reason reached to clutch the helm;
The giddy tempest baffled every grasp,
And my soul danced in circles like a hull
Dismasted, on a monstrous shoreless sea!
The Ploughman
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Anniversary Of The Berkshire Agricultural Society, October 4, 1849
Clear the brown path, to meet his coulter's gleam!
Lo! on he comes, behind his smoking team,
With toil's bright dew-drops on his sunburnt brow,
The lord of earth, the hero of the plough!
First in the field before the reddening sun,
Last in the shadows when the day is done,
Line after line, along the bursting sod,
Marks the broad acres where his feet have trod;
Still, where he treads, the stubborn clods divide,
The smooth, fresh furrow opens deep and wide;
Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves,
Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves;
Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train
Slants the long track that scores the level plain;
Through the moist valley, clogged with oozing clay,
The patient convoy breaks its destined way;
At every turn the loosening chains resound,
The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round,
Till the wide field one billowy waste appears,
And wearied hands unbind the panting steers.
These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings
The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings;
This is the page, whose letters shall be seen
Changed by the sun to words of living green;
This is the scholar, whose immortal pen
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men;
These are the lines which heaven-commanded Toil
Shows on his deed, - the charter of the soil.
O gracious Mother, whose benignant breast
Wakes us to life, and lulls us all to rest,
How thy sweet features, kind to every clime,
Mock with their smile the wrinkled front of time
We stain thy flowers, - they blossom o'er the dead;
We rend thy bosom, and it gives us bread;
O'er the red field that trampling strife has torn,
Waves the green plumage of thy tasselled corn;
Our maddening conflicts sear thy fairest plain,
Still thy soft answer is the growing grain.
Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted charms
Steal round our hearts in thine embracing arms,
Let not our virtues in thy love decay,
And thy fond sweetness waste our strength away.
No! by these hills, whose banners now displayed
In blazing cohorts Autumn has arrayed;
By yon twin summits, on whose splintery crests
The tossing hemlocks hold the eagles' nests;
By these fair plains the mountain circle screens,
And feeds with streamlets from its dark ravines,
True to their home, these faithful arms shall toil
To crown with peace their own untainted soil;
And, true to God, to freedom, to mankind,
If her chained bandogs Faction shall unbind,
These stately forms, that bending even now
Bowed their strong manhood to the humble plough,
Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land,
The same stern iron in the same right hand,
Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph run,
The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won!
The Knight Of Normandy.
by Marietta Holley

Clear shone the moon, my mansion walls
Towered white above the wood,
Near, down the dark oak avenue
An humble cottage stood.
My gardener's cottage, small and brown,
Yet precious unto me;
For there she dwelt, who sat by me
That night beside the sea.
So sweet, the white rose on her neck
Was not more fair than she,
As silently her soft brown eyes
Looked outward o'er the sea.
So still, the muslin o'er her heart
Seemed with no breath to stir,
As silently she sat and heard
The tale I told to her.
"It was a knight of Normandy,
He vowed on his good sword
He would not wed his father's choice,
The Lady Hildegarde.
"Near dwelt the beauteous Edith,
A lowly maiden she - "
Ah! still unmoved, her dark sweet eyes
Looked far away from me.
"Dearer to him one blossom small
That had but touched her hand,
Than all the high-born beauties - 
The ladies of the land.
"Dearer to him," quick came my breath
As I looked down on her,
But the white roses in her hand
No lightest leaf did stir.
Ah! wistfully I read her face,
Full gently did I speak,
No light dawned in her tender eye,
No flush stole o'er her cheek.
"He wore her colors on the field,
He went where brave hearts were;
Ah, gallantly and nobly
He fought for love of her.
"He loved her with his whole true heart,"
Now like a sudden flame
Up to her cheek so pure and white,
A flood of crimson came.
Her hands unclasped, down to her feet
My flowers unnoticed shook;
I leaned and followed with my gaze
Her glad and eager look.
I saw a boat sweep round the rock,
Rowed with a steady grace;
I saw the fisher's manly form,
His brown and handsome face.
"For love of her, to victory
He his brave squadron led,
Then broke his true heart, and her scarf
Pillowed his dying head.
"So died this knight of Normandy,
Died with his sword unstained;"
I know not that she heard my words,
So near the boat had gained.
I said, Heaven bless her, in my heart,
She had no thought for me;
I turned away and left them there
Beside the beating sea.
Behind me lay the sweet moonlight,
My shadow went before,
And passed a dark and gloomy shape
Before me through the door.
Oh strange and sad this life of ours,
This life beneath the sun;
O sad and strange and full of pain
God help us, every one.
God help us, that we may endure
Like him of Normandy;
And die with sword unstained, that has
Led us to victory.
Cloris And Fanny.
by Thomas Moore

Cloris! if I were Persia's king,
I'd make my graceful queen of thee;
While FANNY, wild and artless thing,
Should but thy humble handmaid be.
There is but one objection in it--
That, verily, I'm much afraid
I should, in some unlucky minute,
Forsake the mistress for the maid.
To Thomas Clarkson
by William Wordsworth

ON THE FINAL PASSING OF THE BILL FOR THE ABOLITION OF THE SLAVE TRADE
MARCH 1807
Clarkson! it was an obstinate hill to climb:
How toilsome nay, how dire it was, by thee
Is known; by none, perhaps, so feelingly:
But thou, who, starting in thy fervent prime,
Didst first lead forth that enterprise sublime,
Hast heard the constant Voice its charge repeat,
Which, out of thy young heart's oracular seat,
First roused thee. O true yoke-fellow of Time,
Duty's intrepid liegeman, see, the palm
Is won, and by all Nations shall be worn!
The blood-stained Writing is for ever torn;
And thou henceforth wilt have a good man's calm,
A great man's happiness; thy zeal shall find
Repose at length, firm friend of human kind!
To Clarinda.
by Robert Burns

Clarinda, mistress of my soul,
The measur'd time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole
So marks his latest sun.
To what dark cave of frozen night
Shall poor Sylvander hie;
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light,
The sun of all his joy.
We part, but, by these precious drops
That fill thy lovely eyes!
No other light shall guide my steps
Till thy bright beams arise.
She, the fair sun of all her sex,
Has blest my glorious day;
And shall a glimmering planet fix
My worship to its ray?
O. W. Holmes On His Eightieth Birth-Day
by John Greenleaf Whittier

Climbing a path which leads back never more
We heard behind his footsteps and his cheer;
Now, face to face, we greet him standing here
Upon the lonely summit of Fourscore
Welcome to us, o'er whom the lengthened day
Is closing and the shadows colder grow,
His genial presence, like an afterglow,
Following the one just vanishing away.
Long be it ere the table shall be set
For the last breakfast of the Autocrat,
And love repeat with smiles and tears thereat
His own sweet songs that time shall not forget.
Waiting with us the call to come up higher,
Life is not less, the heavens are only higher!
The Ass Dressed In The Lion'S Skin.
by Jean de La Fontaine

[1]
Clad in a lion's shaggy hide,
An ass spread terror far and wide,
And, though himself a coward brute,
Put all the world to scampering rout:
But, by a piece of evil luck,
A portion of an ear outstuck,
Which soon reveal'd the error
Of all the panic-terror.
Old Martin did his office quick.
Surprised were all who did not know the trick,
To see that Martin,[2] at his will,
Was driving lions to the mill!
In France, the men are not a few
Of whom this fable proves too true;
Whose valour chiefly doth reside
In coat they wear and horse they ride.
Recipe For A Baby:
by Unknown

Clean and dress a wriggle, add a pint of nearly milk,
Smother with a pillow any sneeze;
Baste with talcum powder and mark upon its back -
"Don't forget that you were one of these."
- Life.
All Things Will Die
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

All Things will Die
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
Under my eye;
Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing
Over the sky.
One after another the white clouds are fleeting;
Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating
Full merrily;
Yet all things must die.
The stream will cease to flow;
The wind will cease to blow;
The clouds will cease to fleet;
The heart will cease to beat;
For all things must die.
All things must die.
Spring will come never more.
O, vanity!
Death waits at the door.
See! our friends are all forsaking
The wine and the merrymaking.
We are call'd'we must go.
Laid low, very low,
In the dark we must lie.
The merry glees are still;
The voice of the bird
Shall no more be heard,
Nor the wind on the hill.
O, misery!
Hark! death is calling
While I speak to ye,
The jaw is falling,
The red cheek paling,
The strong limbs failing;
Ice with the warm blood mixing;
The eyeballs fixing.
Nine times goes the passing bell:
Ye merry souls, farewell.
The old earth
Had a birth,
As all men know,
Long ago.
And the old earth must die.
So let the warm winds range,
And the blue wave beat the shore;
For even and morn
Ye will never see
Thro' eternity.
All things were born.
Ye will come never more,
For all things must die.
May Day, 1894
by William Morris

Clad is the year in all her best,
The land is sweet and sheen;
Now Spring with Summer at her breast,
Goes down the meadows green.
Here are we met to welcome in
The young abounding year,
To praise what she would have us win
Ere winter draweth near.
For surely all is not in vain,
This gallant show she brings;
But seal of hope and sign of gain,
Beareth this Spring of springs.
No longer now the seasons wear
Dull, without any tale
Of how the chain the toilers bear
Is growing thin and frail.
But hope of plenty and goodwill
Flies forth from land to land,
Nor any now the voice can still
That crieth on the hand.
A little while shall Spring come back
And find the Ancient Home
Yet marred by foolish waste and lack,
And most enthralled by some.
A little while, and then at last
Shall the greetings of the year
Be blent with wonder of the past
And all the griefs that were.
A little while, and they that meet
The living year to praise,
Shall be to them as music sweet
That grief of bye-gone days.
So be we merry to our best,
Now the land is sweet and sheen,
And Spring with Summer at her breast
Goes down the meadows green.