OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Wild Swans at Coole (Collection)/Broken Dreams

BROKEN DREAMS
There is grey in your hair. Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath When you are passing; But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing Because it was your prayer Recovered him upon the bed of death. For your sole sake—that all heart's ache have known, And given to others all heart's ache, From meagre girlhood's putting on Burdensome beauty—for your sole sake Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom,
So great her portion in that peace you make By merely walking in a room.
Your beauty can but leave among us Vague memories, nothing but memories. A young man when the old men are done talking Will say to an old man, 'Tell me of that lady The poet stubborn with his passion sang us When age might well have chilled his blood.'
Vague memories, nothing but memories, But in the grave all, all, shall be renewed. The certainty that I shall see that lady Leaning or standing or walking
In the first loveliness of womanhood, And with the fervour of my youthful eyes, Has set me muttering like a fool.
You are more beautiful than any one, And yet your body had a flaw: Your small hands were not beautiful, And I am afraid that you will run And paddle to the wrist In that mysterious, always brimming lake Where those that have obeyed the holy law Paddle and are perfect; leave unchanged The hands that I have kissed, For old sakes' sake.
The last stroke of midnight dies. All day in the one chair
From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have ranged In rambling talk with an image of air: Vague memories, nothing but memories.
# The Wild Swans at Coole (Collection)/Another Song of a Fool

ANOTHER SONG OF A FOOL
This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.
Once he lived a schoolmaster With a stark, denying look, A string of scholars went in fear Of his great birch and his great book.
Like the clangour of a bell, Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet. That is how he learnt so well To take the roses for his meat.
# The Wild Swans at Coole (Collection)/His Phoenix

HIS PHOENIX
There is a queen in China, or maybe it's in Spain, And birthdays and holidays such praises can be heard Of her unblemished lineaments, a whiteness with no stain, That she might be that sprightly girl who was trodden by a bird; And there's a score of duchesses, surpassing womankind, Or who have found a painter to make them so for pay And smooth out stain and blemish with the elegance of his mind: I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
The young men every night applaud their Gaby's laughing eye, And Ruth St. Denis had more charm although she had poor luck; From nineteen hundred nine or ten, Pavlova's had the cry And there's a player in the States who gathers up her cloak And flings herself out of the room when Juliet would be bride With all a woman's passion, a child's imperious way, And there are—but no matter if there are scores beside: I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
There's Margaret and Marjorie and Dorothy and Nan, A Daphne and a Mary who live in privacy; One's had her fill of lovers, another's had but one,
Another boasts, 'I pick and choose and have but two or three.' If head and limb have beauty and the instep's high and light, They can spread out what sail they please for all I have to say, Be but the breakers of men's hearts or engines of delight: I knew a phoenix in my youth, so let them have their day.
There'll be that crowd to make men wild through all the centuries, And maybe there'll be some young belle walk out to make men wild Who is my beauty's equal, though that my heart denies, But not the exact likeness, the simplicity of a child, And that proud look as though she had gazed into the burning sun, And all the shapely body no tittle gone astray,
I mourn for that most lonely thing; and yet God's will be done, I knew a phoenix in my youth so let them have their day.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Jonathan Swift to Mr. Wallis - 4

TO THE REV. MR. WALLIS.
I AM just going for England, and must desire you to be my proxy at the bishop's visitation. I find there is likewise a triennial visitation, and think the enclosed may serve for both, with your wise management. The ladies are with me, being now come to live at the deanery for this summer. You have their service, and so has Mrs. Wallis, as well as mine. I reckon you are now deep in mire and mortar, and are preparing to live seven years hence. I have been plagued with the roguery of my deanery proctor, whom I have discharged. I believe I am worse for him six hundred pounds, and his brother is not much better. I wish you had been at my elbow to advise one, for you are fitter for the world than I am. I hope to come safe back, and then to have done with England.
I am ever yours, &c.
J. S.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Jonathan Swift to Mr. Wallis - 1

TO THE REV. MR. WALLIS.
HAD your letter, and the copy of the bishop's circular enclosed, for which I thank you; and yet I will not pretend to know any thing of it, and hope you have not told any body what you did. I should be glad enough to be at the visitation, not out of any love to the business or the person, but to do my part in preventing any mischief. But in truth my health will not suffer it; and you, who are to be my proxy, may safely give it upon your veracity. I am confident the bishop would not be dissatisfied with wanting my company, and yet he may give himself airs when he finds I am not there. I now employ myself in getting you a companion to cure your spleen. I am
Your faithful humble servant,
J. S.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Jonathan Swift to Mr. Wallis - 2

TO THE REV. MR. WALLIS.
YOU stole in and out of town without seeing either the ladies or me; which was very ungratefully done, considering the obligations you have to us, for lodging and dieting with you so long. Why did you not call in the morning at the deanery? Besides, we reckoned for certain that you came to stay a month or two, as you told us you intended. I hear you were so kind as to be at Laracor, where I hope you planted something; and I intend to be down after Christmas, when you must continue a week. As for your plan, it is very pretty, too pretty for the use I intend to make of Laracor. All I would desire is, what I mention in the paper I left you, except a walk down to the canal. I suppose your project would cost me ten pounds and a constant gardener. Pray come to town, and stay some time, and repay yourself some of your dinners. I wonder how a mischief you came to miss us. Why did you not set out a Monday, like a true country parson? Besides, you lay a load on us, in saying one chief end of your journey was to see us; but I suppose there might be another motive, and you are like the man that died of love and the colick. Let us know whether you are more or less monkish, how long you found yourself better by our company, and how long before you recovered the charges we put you ​to? The ladies assure you of their hearty services; and I am, with great truth and sincerity,
Your most faithful humble servant,
JONATH. SWIFT.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Jonathan Swift to Lord Arran - 1

TO LORD ARRAN.
I AM earnestly desired by some worthy friends of mine, to write to your lordship in favour of the bearer, Mr. Moore, minister of Clonmel, who will have the honour to present this letter to your lordship. Those rectorial tithes of Clonmel were granted to the church by letters patents from king Charles the second, with the perfect knowledge and full approbation of your great ancestor, the first duke of Ormond, then lord ​lieutenant of Ireland. Notwithstanding which, some of the former agents to your lordship's family have greatly distressed the incumbent ministers of Clonmel, which is generally believed to be without the knowledge of his present grace the duke your brother, whom God long preserve. But your lordship's present agent being extremely vigilant of all your lordship's interests, has lately renewed the claim of the Ormond family to those tithes, and was at the last assizes, after a long hearing of six hours, nonsuited. The living of Clonmel is one of the largest, and yet poorest parishes, in this kingdom; being upon the whole (including the valuation of the houses) scarce worth one hundred pounds a year; out of which, a curate assistant being absolutely necessary on account of its extent, a salary of forty pounds must be paid.
My lord, your lordship's family has been always distinguished for their favour and protection to the established church, under her greatest persecutions; nor have you, in the universal opinion, ever degenerated from them. Those tithes in and about Clonmel are very inconsiderable, having never been let for above twenty-four pounds a year, made up of very small pittances collected from a great number of the poorest people; so that the recovery of them by an expensive lawsuit, if it could be effected, would not be worth attempting.
Mr. Moore is recommended to me by several persons of great worth (as I have already observed) and I hope I have not hitherto forfeited the credit I had with you.
My humble request therefore to your lordship is, that the minister of Clonmel may, without ​disturbance, enjoy that small addition to his support, which the king and your grandfather intended for him.
I have always understood and believed, that the duke your brother's retiring has not lessened your fortune, but increased it: and as to his grace, unless all our intelligence be false, he is as easy as he desires to be. I heard of several persons who have ventured to wait on him abroad, and it is agreed that his grace is perfectly easy in his mind and fortune.
Upon the whole, I do earnestly desire your lordship to resign those poor scraps of tithes in and about Clonmel to Mr. Moore and his successors, in a legal form, for ever. Your loss will be at most but twenty-four pounds a year, and that with a thousand difficulties infinitely below your generosity and quality.
I am, &c.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Jonathan Swift to Mr. Wallis - 3

TO THE REV. MR. WALLIS.
I WOULD have been at Laracor and Athboy before now, if an ugly depending chapter business had not tied me here. There is a long difficulty, that concerns the government, the archbishop, the chapter, the dean, Dr. Howard, and Robin Grattan, and I know not whether it will be determined in a month. All my design is, to do a job for Robert Grattan; but the rest have their different schemes and politicks, too deep and too contemptible for me to trouble myself about them. Mean time you grow negligent, and the improvements at Laracor are forgotten. I beg you will stop there for a day or two, and do what is necessary now, before the season is too late; and I will come when this affair is over, and bring down wine (which will not be ready till then, for it is but just bottled); and we will be merry at your house and my cottage.
I sent your memorial, drawn up by myself, with my opinion upon it, and a letter to Dr. Kearney, to recommend it to the primate. I likewise desired Mr. Morgan to second it. I have in vain hitherto sought Dr. Kearney, but shall find him soon; and I intend to engage Dr. Worth and Mr. Cross, and probably all may come to nothing ——— Sed quid tentare nocebit? The ladies are as usually — Mrs. Johnson eats an ounce a week, which frights ​me from dining with her. My crew has drunk near three hogsheads since I came to town, and we must take up with new when I come down. I suppose you are in the midst of spleen and justice. I have often an ill head, and am so unfortunate as to pick out rainy days to ride in. What is it to you that old Proby the painter is dead?
I am ever your's,
J.SWIFT.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Jonathan Swift to Martha Whiteway - 1

TO MRS. WHITEWAY.
DEC. 28, 1730.
YOU might give a better reason for restoring my book, that it was not worth keeping. I thought by the superscription that your letter was written by a man; for you have neither the scrawl nor the spelling of your sex. You live so far off, and I believe are so seldom at home, and I am so ill a visitor, that it is no wonder we meet so seldom: but if you knew what I say of you to others, you would believe it was not want of inclination; I mean what I say of you as I knew you formerly; for as to what you are now, I know but little. I give you the good wishes of the season; and am, with true esteem and affection, yours, &c.
J. SWIFT.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 12/From Jonathan Swift to Mr. Faulkner - 1

TO MR. FAULKNER.
DEANERY HOUSE,
WITHOUT the least regard to your wager, I do assure you, upon my word and reputation, that I am not the author of one single line or syllable of that pamphlet, called, An infallible Scheme to pay the Debts of the Nation; and, as it is a very unjust, so it is equally an imprudent and fallible proceeding, to pronounce determinately on our taste and knowledge of style or manner of writing, where very good judges are often deceived; and in this case, few men have suffered so much as myself, who have born the reproach of many hundred printed papers, which I never saw. I do likewise protest in the same manner, that I did not write the epigram upon Taylor, nor heard of it until Mr. Pilkington showed it me in manuscript. Therefore, pray desire your wagerer, from me, to be more cautious in determining on such matters, and not to venture the loss of his money and credit with so much odds against him.
I am, your humble servant,
J. SWIFT.
# The Works of H. G. Wells (Atlantic Edition)/Anticipations

Layout 2
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Verses on Two Celebrated Modern Poets

VERSES
ON TWO CELEBRATED MODERN POETS.
BEHOLD, those monarch oaks, that rise, With lofty branches to the skies, Have large proportioned roots that grow With equal longitude below: Two bards, that now in fashion reign, Most aptly this device explain: If this to clouds and stars will venture, That creeps as far to reach the centre; Or, more to show the thing I mean, Have you not o'er a sawpit seen, A skill'd mechanick, that has stood High on a length of prostrate wood, Who hired a subterraneous friend, To take his iron by the end; But which excell'd was never found, The man above, or under ground. The moral is so plain to hit, That, had I been the god of wit, Then, in a sawpit and wet weather, Should Young and Philips drudge together.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/The Examiner, No. 46

THE EXAMINER. No. 46.
THURSDAY JUNE 14, 1711.
"Melius non tangiere elamo."
WHEN a general has conquered an army, and reduced a country to obedience, he often finds it ​necessary to send out small bodies, in order to take in petty castles and forts, and beat little straggling ​parties, which are otherwise apt to make head, and infest the neighbourhood. This case exactly resembles mine. I count the main body of the whigs entirely subdued; at least, till they appear with new reinforcements, I shall reckon them as such; and therefore do now find myself at leisure to examine inferiour abuses. The business I have left is, to fall on those wretches that will be still keeping the war on foot, when they have no country to defend, no forces to bring into the field, nor any thing remaining, but their bare good will toward faction and mischief: I mean the present set of writers, whom I have suffered, without molestation, so long to infest the town. Were there not a concurrence from prejudice, party, weak understanding, and misrepresentation, I should think them too inconsiderable in themselves to deserve correction. But as my endeavour has been to expose the gross impositions of the fallen party, I will give a taste, in the following petition, of the sincerity of these their factors, to show how little those writers for the whigs were ​guided by conscience or honour, their business being only to gratify a prevailing interest.
"HUMBLY SHOWETH,
"That your petitioners have served their time to the trade of writing pamphlets and weekly papers, in defence of the whigs, against the church of England, and the christian religion, and her majesty's prerogative, and her title to the crown: That, since the late change of ministry, and meeting of this parliament, the said trade is mightily fallen off, and the call for the said pamphlets and papers much less than formerly; and it is feared, to our farther prejudice, that the Examiner may discontinue waiting, whereby some of your petitioners will be brought to utter distress, forasmuch as, through false quotations, noted absurdities, and other legal abuses, many of your petitioners, to their great comfort and support, were enabled to pick up a weekly subsistance out of the said Examiner.
"That your said poor petitioners did humbly ofter your honours to write in defence of the late change of ministry and parliament, much cheaper than they did for your predecessors; which your honours were pleased to refuse.
"Notwithstanding which offer, your petitioners are under daily apprehension, that your honours will forbid them to follow the said trade any longer; by which your petitioners, to the ​number of fourscore, with their wives and families, will inevitably starve, having been bound to no other calling.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/To the Rev. Dr. Swift, Dean of St. Patrick's: a Birthday Poem 1736

TO THE REV. DR. SWIFT, DEAN OF ST. PATRICK'S.
A BIRTHDAY POEM. Nov. 30, 1736.
TO you, my true and faithful friend These tributary lines I send, Which every year, thou best of deans, I'll pay as long as life remains; But did you know one half the pain, What work, what racking of the brain, It costs me for a single clause, How long I'm forced to think and pause; How long I dwell upon a proem, To introduce your birthday poem, How many blotted lines; I know it, You'd have compassion for the poet. Now, to describe the way I think, I take in hand my pen and ink; I rub my forehead, scratch my head, Revolving all the rhymes I read. Each complimental thought sublime, Reduced by favourite Pope to rhyme, And those by you to Oxford writ, With true simplicity and wit. Yet after all I cannot find One panegyrick to my mind. Now I begin to fret and blot, Something I schemed but quite forgot; My fancy turns a thousand ways Through all the several forms of praise, ​What elogy may best become The greatest dean in christendom. At last I've hit upon a thought —— Sure this will do —— 'tis good for nought —— This line I peevishly erase, And choose another in its place; Again I try, again commence, But cannot well express the sense; The line's too short to hold my meaning; I'm cramp'd, and cannot bring the dean in. O for a rhyme to glorious birth! I've hit upon't —— The rhyme is earth ——, But how to bring it in, or fit it, I know not, so I'm forc'd to quit it. Again I try — I'll sing the man — Ay do, says Phœbus, if you can: I wish with all my heart you would not, Were Horace now alive he could not: And will you venture to pursue, What none alive or dead could do? Pray see, did ever Pope or Gay Presume to write on his birthday? Though both were fav'rite bards of mine, The task they wisely both decline. With grief I felt his admonition, And much lamented my condition: Because I could not be content Without some grateful compliment, If not the poet, sure the friend Must something on your birthday send. I scratch'd, and rubb'd my head once more: "Let ev'ry patriot him adore." Alackaday, there's nothing in't — Such stuff will never do in print. ​ Pray, reader, ponder well the sequel, I hope this epigram will take well. In others, life is deem'd a vapour, In Swift, it is a lasting taper, Whose blaze continually refines, The more it burns the more it shines. I read this epigram again, 'Tis much too flat to fit the dean. Then down I lay some scheme to dream on, Assisted by some friendly demon. I slept, and dream'd that I should meet A birthday poem in the street; So after all my care and rout, You see, dear dean, my dream is out.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Upon Carthy's Threatening to Translate Pindar

UPON CARTHY'S THREATENING TO TRANSLATE PINDAR.BY DR. SWIFT.
YOU have undone Horace, — what should hinder Thy muse from falling upon Pindar? But ere you mount his fiery steed, Beware, O bard, how you proceed: —— ​For should you give him once the reins, High up in air he'll turn your brains; And if you should his fury check, 'Tis ten to one he breaks your neck.
# The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 18/Verses on I Know Not What

VERSES ON I KNOW NOT WHAT.
MY latest tribute here I send, With this let your collection end. Thus I consign you down to fame A character to praise or blame: And if the whole may pass for true, Contented rest, you have your due. Give future time the satisfaction, To leave one handle for detraction.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/The Daughter of Herodias

CXCIII
THE DAUGHTER OF HERODIAS
THREE yellow slaves were set to swing The doorway curtain to and fro, With rustle of light folds and ring Of little bells that hung below; The still, hot night was tempered so.
And ever, from the carven bed, She watched the labour of the men; And saw the band of moonlight spread, Leap up upon her feet and then Leap down upon the floor again;
​And ever, vexed with heat and doubt, Below the burthen of their shawls, The still grey olives saw without And glimmer of white garden walls, Between the alternate curtain falls.
What ailed the dainty lady then, The dainty lady, fair and sweet? Unseen of these three silent men, A something lay upon her feet, Not comely for such eyes to meet.
She saw a golden salver there And, laid upon it, on the bed, The white teeth showing keen and bare Between the sundered lips, a head Sallow and horrible and dead.
She saw upon the sallow cheek Rust-coloured blood-stains; and the eye Her frightened glances seemed to seek Half-lifting its blue lid on high, Watching her, horrible and sly.
Thus spake she: "Once again that head! "I ate too much pilau to-night, "My mother and the eunuchs said. "Well, I can take a hint aright— "To-morrow's supper shall be light."
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/The Light-Keeper

CXCII
THE LIGHT-KEEPER
AS the steady lenses circle With a frosty gleam of glass; And the clear bell chimes, And the oil brims over the lip of the burner, Quiet and still at his desk, The lonely light-keeper Holds his vigil.
Lured from far, The bewildered seagull beats Dully against the lantern; Yet he stirs not, lifts not his head From the desk where he reads, Lifts not his eyes to see The chill blind circle of night Watching him through the panes. ​This is his country's guardian, The outmost sentry of peace. This is the man Who gives up that is lovely in living For the means to live.
Poetry cunningly gilds The life of the light-keeper. Held on high in the blackness In the burning kernel of night, The seaman sees and blesses him. The Poet, deep in a sonnet, Numbers his inky fingers Fitly to praise him. Only we behold him, Sitting, patient and stolid Martyr to a salary.
# The Works of Robert Louis Stevenson (Vailima ed.)/Volume 8/New Poems/The indefensible impulse of my blood

CLXXIV
THE indefensible impulse of my blood Surround me sleeping in this isle; and I Behold rain falling and the rainbow dawn On Lammermuir; and hearkening heard again, In my precipitous city, beaten bells Winnow the keen sea wind. So this I wrote Of my own race and place: which being done, Take thou the writing. True it is, for who Burnished the sword, breathed on the damp coal, Held still the target higher, chary of praise And prodigal of censure—who but thou? So here in the end, if this in the least be well, If any deed be done, if any fire Live in the imperfect page, the praise be thine!