OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Time

TIME
WHAT thought can measure Time?— Tell its beginning, name The void from which it first, faint-pulsing, came?— Follow its onward going,— A restless river without tumult flowing,— Or with sure footing climb Unto its unlit altitudes sublime?
What thought can trace the wonders it hath seen— Time, the creator of all that hath been, Giver of bounty where was dearth, Bringer of miracles to birth: Time, through whose office is the seedling sown, The fruit up-gathered, the ripe harvest mown, And beauty made to glorify the earth?
Before the land took shape and rose Black and chaotic from the old, old sea, Before the stars their courses chose, Before the moon's most ancient memory, Time to Earth's vision, veiled in night, appears Back of the viewless cycles of the years.
​The Hours, his little children, run Lightly upon his errands ever; By sure and swift relays is done His will, disputed never; The while these transient Hours infirm Measure of mortal things the destined term.
Ah, me, the days! the heavy-weighted years, Each with its Spring and Winter, dusk and dawn! The centuries, with all their joys, and tears, That came, and now—so utterly are gone! Gone whither? Whither vanished so? Does broad Orion, or does Hesper know?
There comes no answer. Are we dupes, indeed,— Offspring of Time, by Time relentless slain, Our purest aspirations dreamed in vain? Ah, no: man's soul indignant doth disdain Ignoble vassalage to such a creed, Well-knowing it is free,— Aye, free!—for present, past, and future blend, The segments of a circle without end, Losing themselves in one, unbourned eternity!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/The Return

THE RETURN
WHO knocks at the door so late, so late— Who knocks so late at the door? Is it one who comes as a stranger comes, Or one who has knocked before? Is it one who stays with intent to bless, Or one who stands to implore?
My days have been as the years, she said, And my heart, my heart is sore; Love looked in my face for a moment's space One happy spring of yore— Looked in my face with a wistful grace; And left me to grieve evermore!
Through all the days the door stood wide, For hope had breathed a vow That love should ne'er be kept outside. ​The years were long and hope hath died; The door at last is barred and fast— Why comes this knocking now?
Yet woe the waiting heart, she said, And the heart it waiteth for! And woe the truth and wasted youth That nothing shall restore! The faith that's fled, the hope that's dead, The dreams that come no more.
Who knocks at the gate—so late, so late? Thou foolish heart, be still! What is 't to thee if love or hate Knocks in the midnight chill? Art thou, poor heart, compassionate? Is love so hard to kill?
Ah me! the night is cold, she said; Would I might all forget; But memory lives when hope is dead, And pity heals regret; As light still lingers overhead When sun and moon are set.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/The Violin

THE VIOLIN
HE gave me all, and then he laid me by. Straining my strings to breaking with his pain, He voiced an anguish, through my wailing cry, Never to speak again.
He pressed his cheek against me, and he wept— Had we been glad together over much?— Emotions that within me deep had slept Grew vibrant at his touch,
And I who could not ask whence sprung his sorrow, Responsive to a grief I might not know, Sobbed as the infant that each mood doth borrow Sobs for the mother's woe.
Wild grew my voice and stormy with his passion, Lifted at last unto a tragic might; Then swift it changed in sad and subtile fashion To pathos infinite,
​Swooning away beneath his faltering fingers Till the grieved plaint seemed, echoless, to die; When, calm, he rose, and with a touch that lingers, Laid me forever by.
Forever! Ah, he comes no more—my lover! And all my spirit wrapped in trance-like sleep, Darkling I dream that such a night doth cover His grief with hush as deep.
# Pacific National Bank of Boston v. Mixter

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
114 U.S. 463
Pacific National Bank of Boston v. Mixter
Joshua D. Ball, for motion.
A. A. Ranney, in opposition.
WAITE, C. J.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Pacific National Bank of Boston v. Mixter/Opinion of the Court

* Court Documents
* Case Syllabus
* Opinion of the Court
United States Supreme Court
114 U.S. 463
Pacific National Bank of Boston v. Mixter
This motion is denied. Under section 1001 of the Revised Statutes, no bond for the prosecution of the suit, or to answer in damages or costs, is required on writs of error or appeals issuing from or brought to this court by direction of the comptroller of the currency in suits by or against insolvent national banks, or the receivers thereof. This is such a case. There is abundant evidence in the record that the direction from the comptroller to the receiver was to take out a writ of error in this case, although, by mistake in one of the papers, Henry Mixter was named as the plaintiff instead of George Mixter.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Pacific National Company v. Welch

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
304 U.S. 191
Pacific National Company v. Welch
Argued: March 3, 1938. --- Decided: May 2, 1938
Messrs. Donald V. Hunter, of Washington, D.C., and Melvin D Wilson, of Los Angeles, Cal., for petitioner.
Mr. Edward J. Ennis, of New York City, for respondent.
Mr. Justice BUTLER delivered the opinion of the Court.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Pacific Postal Telephone Cable Company v. O'Connor

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
128 U.S. 394
Pacific Postal Telephone Cable Company v. O'Connor
Andrew Wesley Kent, for plaintiff in error.
D. M. Dolmas, for defendant in error.
FULLER, C. J.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Pacific Postal Telephone Cable Company v. O'Connor/Opinion of the Court

* Court Documents
* Case Syllabus
* Opinion of the Court
United States Supreme Court
128 U.S. 394
Pacific Postal Telephone Cable Company v. O'Connor
This was an action to recover damages for personal injuries, which resulted, August 29, 1888, in a verdict for $5,500. Upon the return of the verdict the court directed, as minuted by the clerk, judgment to be entered thereon. On the 30th day of August the plaintiff below, by his counsel, asked leave in open court to remit the sum of $500, which was granted, and judgment rendered for $5,000 and costs, 'and now so appears of record.' Subsequently the defendant below moved to set aside the allowance of the remittitur, and to correct the judgment, which motion was denied by the court, and defendant excepted, and by bill of exceptions brought the court's direction to the clerk of August 29th into the record, and the fact that the judgment of August 30th was rendered in the absence of defendant and his counsel. A writ of error having been subsequently prosecuted to reverse the judgment, defendant in error moves to dismiss it for want of jurisdiction. We cannot hold upon this record the action of the circuit court to have been in abuse of its discretion, and, as the judgment as it stands is for $5,000 only, the motion to dismiss must be granted. Insurance Co. v. Nichols, 109 U.S. 232, 3 Sup. Ct. Rep. 120; Bank v. Redick, 110 U.S. 224, 3 Sup. Ct. Rep. 640; Thompson v. Butler, 95 U.S. 694. Writ of error dismissed.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems (Merrill)/A Yule-Tide Missive

Buckfield, Me., 1911.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Smiles

SMILES.
Have you ne'er felt, when the laugh rang out With the merry peal and the echoed shout, And the jest flew round with a hearty glee, And the bright eye laughed right merrily— Have you ne'er felt that the shaft of pain Was meant to be clothed in that merry strain?
And did not the thought, like a magic spell, Choke up your voice with your spirit's swell, And your tone grow hoarse while you laughed on still, Though it fell on your heart with a painful thrill; And you trembled and shrunk like a guilty thing, Lest the tears should escape their hidden spring?
And a word, a single careless word, Fell from the lips that many heard; But you of the hearers alone knew well What that careless word was meant to tell; Still you jested on with a hearty glee, Though your heart sunk cold and joylessly!
And there was an eye you feared to meet, Lest its glance should sink to the deep retreat Of the burning thoughts and scalding tears That sear the heart with grief of years, And awaken the fountain that must o'erflow, Lest it burst the heart with its strength of woe!
Far down in the spirit's deep, deep well, There was hidden a grief that none might tell; For the eye laughed on, and the lip was bright, And none might dream of hopeless night Whose shadow so heavy and cheerless all, Had wrapt your heart in its gloomy pall.
​O trust not smiles, for their light may hide A heart where each gushing hope hath died; And guide your lips, lest the careless jest Should sadden a heart that hath long supprest Its harrowing fears with a careless air, And bound with a smile-wreath the brow of despair.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Dead Lover

THE DEAD LOVER.
Is he then dead, God! and hath he perished In all his brightness—stricken back to dust! The high imaginings—the hopes he cherished— And my mad love—alike an empty trust? It can not, can not be; look on his brow! The light of intellect is resting there; And the calm smile upon his proud lip now, Hath the same sweetness it was wont to wear.
Oft have I gazed upon his manly face, And felt my heart throb with a lofty pride To mark the same expression I now trace, Of high, pure thoughtfulness; the soul's full tide Of still but mighty feelings shining through Each soul-illumined feature; would not Death, With his damp, icy touch, and blighting dew, Efface the impress with his first cold breath?
Yet say they, "He is dead!" I may now dare To lay my hand upon his kingly brow, And smooth the masses of his jetty hair, Whose glossy curls have never until now Threaded my trembling fingers; strange delight! How my heart burns within its prisoning cell! And my brain reels, till all around is night— Would 'twere death's silent and insidious spell!
The brief insensibility is past; And deeper than before the rankling dart Pierces its barbed point; oh, shall this last, And life yet linger in this heaving heart? ​Away, away! come ye to tear me hence? If in his life I dared not tell my love, Awed into silence by his eloquence, Leave me alone with him, that I may prove
By my wild grief, how wild, and strong, and deep Was the revering love I bore for him; My aching eyes, that burn too much to weep, With unshed tears must be forever dim; And this rent heart, torn from its lofty trust, Must, sad and strengthless, sink again to earth, And, like its idol, mingle with the dust, From which it rose in its mysterious birth.
O for a single tone of his deep voice, To linger ever quivering on my ear! O for one glance of those dark, earnest eyes To light the gloom of this now joyless sphere! But thou art still and silent—thou art dead! I feel what death is now—voiceless and still; When the bright spirit from the clay is fled— And thou art thus—motionless, voiceless, chill!
And we were to be wedded—I thy bride; And I am thine still, even in the tomb; Though never more triumphant by thy side, I feel to my hot cheek the quick blood come. I know our souls are wedded—but to see Thy face forever hidden from my sight— Never to hear thy voice—oh, agony! Would that my spirit, too, might wing its flight.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Grave of L. E. L.

THE GRAVE OF L. E. L.
"Not where the wild bee hummeth About the mossed headstone; And at midnight the moon cometh And looketh down alone."
Thy grave is not befitting one like thee, Sweet but impassioned songstress of the heart; They should have laid thee 'neath some spreading tree, From all but wild-wood melodies apart. They should have laid thee by some low-voiced river, Whose waves would keep for thee a soft complain, Murmuring with plaintive, dirge-like voice, forever To thy calm rest a wild, pathetic strain.
The clang of armor never should have rung Above the mouldering dust of one like thee; Thou couldst not love the trumpet's brazen tongue, Who didst find life such bitter mockery; And it was mockery to lay thee there, Beneath an Eastern pavement's burning glow, With heavy tread of soldiers falling where The sacred tear of memory should flow.
Was there no one whose delicate sympathy Could choose for thee a holier place of rest, And o'er the heart once rich with harmony, See that the earth and the young wild-flowers prest? ​We may now chide the soldier's iron heel That stamps relentlessly upon thy grave; But ah, thy living heart did often feel More heavy griefs from which we could not save.
And thou, whose theme was ever passionate love, Whose lyre e'er sounded with a sad complain Of unrequited sympathies, that wove Thy dearest happiness with thy deepest pain, Art sleeping now where not a flower may spring, A leaf may quiver, or a wild bird sing.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Song of the Eagle

SONG OF THE EAGLE.
I'm the child of light, yet the darkest night No terrors hath for me, For the storm I ride, in a monarch's pride, Or skim o'er the heaving sea. When lowering clouds, like sable shrouds, Wrap the earth in deepest gloom, I join the surge in the funeral dirge, O'er the sailor's watery tomb.
And I love to rest on the summit crest Of the proudest mountain's height, While the clouds below lie like wreaths of snow, Yielding homage to my might. In my pride I go where eternal snow Has crested the mountain's brow, And laugh at the storm, and the blackened form Of the threatening clouds below.
Mid the lightning's flash, and the thunder's crash, I scream for my own delight, For I love to hear, so loud and clear, My voice ringing out in the night. ​Not so proud a one ever gazed on the sun As the eagle bird, I trow, Stooping to rest on the towering crest Of the highest mountain's brow.
In the pride of a king, with folded wing, I gaze on ruined Tyre; By Heaven's decree it was given to me, And no power to give is higher. From land or sea God hath chosen me, And a favored bird am I— The gifted of Heaven, to whom power is given Over earth, and sea, and sky.
I care not for earth, though I had my birth On the proudest height she owns; And I'd rather ride o'er old ocean's tide Than sit on her rocky thrones. But I love the sun, and could I have won A home in its realms of light, With a laugh of scorn from this earth I'd turn, And soar to my home in delight.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Heart's Requiem

THE HEART'S REQUIEM.
"A requiem! and for whom? For beauty in its bloom? For valor fallen—a broken rose or sword? A dirge for king or chief, With pomp of stately grief, Banner, and torch, and waving plume deplored?
"Not so! it is not so!" No sounding wail of woe Swells to the heavens when human hearts lie dead; No torch lights up the gloom Of the heart's rayless tomb; No funeral incense o'er its dust is shed.
Wild was that heart's distress, Fierce the dark bitterness With which it bore its heavy griefs untold; Scorning the poor relief The false world offers grief— Disdaining sympathy so false and cold.
Silent, unwept, alone Breathing into the tone Of its last long and passionate farewell, Whole treasures of rich thought, With the soul's fullness fraught, Then dying with the melody's last swell.
Not the loud mournful dirge, Sung by the ocean's surge, Above the grave where buried thousands lie, Rises to Heaven's high throne With more emphatic tone, Or with a note of purer majesty.
​In one poor human heart These thrilhng accents start, And mingle into music wild and deep; Swelling in one rich strain Of earthly joy and pain, Then trembling softly, die away to sleep.
O for earth's hapless trust! Its "mingled mind and dust" Make with each other such continual strife! O for the hapless faith That meets reward in death, Mourning the bitter chilliness of life.
Earth, earth! thy sods have pressed Lightly on many a breast That could not bear its weight of living woe; Full many a heart hath come To thy embrace of gloom, Blessing thy coldness to the world's false glow.
"One more, then, one more strain To earthly joy and pain, A rich, and deep, and passionate farewell! Pour out each fervent thought With fear, hope, trembling fraught, Into the notes the last this heart shall swell."
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Country Road

THE COUNTRY ROAD.
I love to muse along the tracery Of a provincial road. The gaudy town, With its full streets, its busy, care-browed throng, May furnish food, ay, ample food for thought; But such reflections as come o'er us there Are feverish and unhealthy. But to me There is sweet company in the old trees That fling their shadows o'er the sunny way; Whose murmur of innumerable leaves, Broken by bursts of joyous harmony, From the gay, bright-plumed choir, or by the quick, Low, musical chattering of the small, And many habitants of the old wood— To find a flower, that half-concealed by leaves, Had bloomed unseen (so many flowers of life Are passed unheeded by, and careless feet Trample them in the dust); all these have tongues, That murmur in soft discourse to the heart. The very shadows on the dusty way, Changeful and restless, mock the swinging boughs ​That suit their motion to the fitful breeze, And whisper music to the dream-bound soul. But most of all, I love to notice where The feet of other wayfarers have fallen. Such is the willingness with which we look Into the hearts of others, to find out The secret of their misery or bliss; That as I gaze upon the brief impress Of feet whose owners I have never known, A shadow of their character will cross The vision of my fancy like a truth. Deep in the dust, and almost half erased, I see the traces of a ponderous shoe; The wearer hath trod heavily; perhaps Burdened with care, as wearied with the toil Of tedious miles; for when the heart beats low The blood flows but reluctantly, and life Performs its functions wearily, with care. But here, and here, a little unshod foot Hath pressed but lightly, as with smiling eyes And bounding heart its infant owner tripped Laughing along, perchance to school and books— May be to gather flowers for good grandma— Or yet to roam in search of winter stores Of brown, delicious nuts. And here's a print Of a small slippered foot, and just beside A larger and a heavier impress. And now the mind with fancy's pencil draws A picture of a pair, a beautiful pair, Of young and love-eyed beings, who, with lips Lovely and eloquent, breathe impassioned dreams, Fashioned in hearts filled with the loveliest And gentlest thoughts, and told in whispered words Inspired by scenes as full of love as is The countenance of Nature. They have talked, Confiding in each other, till the chain Of subtlest sympathy that binds our hearts ​Hath linked theirs in blest unison, and made Life seem a fairy-land of light and love. But they are gone! I now no longer see The tracery of their footsteps; but I go Still dreaming on; and I will have a world Of beautiful images; and some, perhaps, Sad, sad ones, too; but these will make the heart More grateful for its joys, and give a shade To the too brilliant coloring of its dreams.
# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Snowdrops

SNOWDROPS.
O take away your snowdrops pale, I can not bear the sight— They were woven in our Ada's hair upon her bridal night; And fairer looked the snowy buds than India's rarest pearls, And fairer than them both the brow that beamed beneath her curls. That lily brow, those tresses dark, O ne'er so fair a bride Hath trembled at the altar-place her chosen one beside; And never heart more pure and fond, a wedding gift was brought Than Ada's in its sinlessness, its sweet and earnest thought. The snowy robe, and lily brow, and bridal garland pale, And dark bright tresses shining through the silver-woven vail; ​The delicately tinted cheek, the bright lips' sweet unrest, That quivered all unconsciously to the pulse within her breast; The drooping eyelid glittering with bright and happy tears— The memory of that bridal night hath haunted me for years.
But take away your pale, pale wreath, I can not bear the sight; I saw it on our Ada's brow upon another night; Another night—O if her brow outshone the wreath before, Sure nothing earthly matched the white her brow and cheek then wore: So pallid that the tracery of the blue, delicate vein Upon the temple passed away, with all its violet stain; Gone was all light, all radiance; with moveless lip and limb She listened to the dreadful words they whispered her of him; The husband of her bridehood false! her frightened soul seemed flown, And the pale buds to wreathe a brow above a heart of stone. O beautiful, most beautiful, but like a marble vase, Whence life and perfume both are fled, the beauty of her face; For fearfully and fatally the sudden terror came, And quenched her life as would the sea a little incense flame; And standing like a Hindoo girl who sees her lamp expire, Her soul died out as music dies along a breaking lyre. That night the wreath that decked the bride was loosened from her hair, And the dark tresses straitened back with still and reverent care.
But soon again we wove a wreath of buds as white as snow; We could not bear that even the grave should witness to her woe; We twined them with her braided hair, and placed them on her breast, And laid her softly down to sleep in a sweet place of rest; But these fair buds bring back the scene, and the two that went before, Then bring to twine about my brow your snowy wreath no more; For fairer though they be than pearls, I can not bear the sight Of snowdrops woven in a wreath since that remembered night.