OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Inchcape Rock

PART IV
The Inchcape Rock.
The man is wrecked and his ship is sunken before he ever steps on board or sees the water if his heart is hard and his estimate of human beings low. "The Inchcape Rock" is a thrust at hard-heartedness. "What is the use of life?" To bear one another's burdens, to develop a genius for pulling people through hard places—that's the use of life. It is the last resort of a mean mind to crack jokes that wreck innocent voyagers on life's sea. (1774-1843.)
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was still as she could be; Her sails from heaven received no motion; Her keel was steady in the ocean.
Without either sign or sound of their shock, The waves flowed over the Inchcape Rock; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell.
The Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that Bell on the Inchcape Rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, The mariners heard the warning Bell; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.
The sun in heaven was shining gay; All things were joyful on that day; The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round, And there was joyance in their sound.
​The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, A dark spot on the ocean green; Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck, And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering power of spring; It made him whistle, it made him sing: His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.
His eye was on the Inchcape float. Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
The boat is lowered, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.
Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound; The bubbles rose and burst around. Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok."
Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away; He scoured the sea for many a day; And now grown rich with plundered store, He steers his course for Scotland's shore.
So thick a haze o'erspread the sky, They cannot see the sun on high: ​The wind hath blown a gale all day, At evening it hath died away.
On the deck the Rover takes his stand; So dark it is they see no land. Quoth Sir Ralph, "It will be brighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising moon."
"Canst hear," said one, "the broken roar? For methinks we should be near the shore." "Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell."
They hear no sound; the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock: "O Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!"
Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, He curst himself in his despair: The waves rush in on every side; The ship is sinking beneath the tide.
But, even in his dying fear, One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,— A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell The Devil below was ringing his knell.
Robert Southey.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Ivy Green

The Ivy Green.
"The Ivy Green," by Charles Dickens (1812-70), is a hardy poem in honour of a hardy plant. There is a wonderful ivy growing at Rhudlan, in northern Wales. Its roots are so large and strong that they form a comfortable seat for many persons, and no one can remember when they were smaller. This ivy envelops a great castle in ruins. Every child in that locality loves the old ivy. It is typical of the ivy as seen all through Wales and England.
O, a dainty plant is the ivy green, That creepeth o'er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a staunch old heart has he! How closely he twineth, how tight he clings To his friend, the huge oak tree! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mould of dead men's graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; ​But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy's food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green.
Charles Dickens
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Flying Squirrel

The Flying Squirrel.
"The Flying Squirrel" is an honest account of a live creature that won his way into scores of hearts by his mad pranks and affectionate ways. It is enough that John Burroughs has commended the poem.
Of all the woodland creatures, The quaintest little sprite ​Is the dainty flying squirrel In vest of shining white, In coat of silver gray, And vest of shining white.
His furry Quaker jacket Is trimmed with stripe of black; A furry plume to match it Is curling o'er his back; New curved with every motion, His plume curls o'er his back.
No little new-born baby Has pinker feet than he; Each tiny toe is cushioned With velvet cushions three; Three wee, pink, velvet cushions Almost too small to see.
Who said, "The foot of baby Might tempt an angel's kiss"? I know a score of school-boys Who put their lips to this,— This wee foot of the squirrel, And left a loving kiss.
The tiny thief has hidden My candy and my plum; Ah, there he comes unbidden To gently nip my thumb,— Down in his home (my pocket) He gently nips my thumb.
​How strange the food he covets, The restless, restless wight;— Fred's old stuffed armadillo He found a tempting bite, Fred's old stuffed armadillo, With ears a perfect fright.
The Lady Ruth's great bureau, Each foot a dragon's paw! The midget ate the nails from His famous antique claw. Oh, what a cruel beastie To hurt a dragon's claw!
To autographic copies Upon my choicest shelf,— To every dainty volume The rogue has helped himself. My books! Oh dear! No matter! The rogue has helped himself.
And yet, my little squirrel, Your taste is not so bad; You've swallowed Caird completely And psychologic Ladd. Rosmini you've digested, And Kant in rags you've clad.
Gnaw on, my elfish rodent! Lay all the sages low! My pretty lace and ribbons, They're yours for weal or woe! My pocket-book's in tatters Because you like it so.
Mary E. Burt.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Frost

The Frost.
"Jack Frost," by Hannah Flagg Gould (1789-1865), is perhaps a hundred years old, but he is the same rollicking fellow to-day as of yore. The poem puts his merry pranks to the front and prepares the way for science to give him a true analysis.
The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, And whispered, "Now I shall be out of sight; So through the valley and over the height, In silence I'll take my way: I will not go on with that blustering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, But I'll be as busy as they."
Then he flew to the mountain and powdered its crest; He lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed In diamond beads—and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear That hung on its margin far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.
He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane, like a fairy, crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he slept, By the light of the moon were seen ​Most beautiful things—there were flowers and trees; There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees; There were cities with temples and towers, and these All pictured in silver sheen!
But he did one thing that was hardly fair; He peeped in the cupboard, and finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare— "Now just to set them a-thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he, "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three, And the glass of water they've left for me Shall 'tchich!' to tell them I'm drinking."
Hannah Flagg Gould.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Glove and the Lions

The Glove and the Lions.
"The Glove and the Lions" was one of my early reading-lessons. It is an incisive thrust at the vanity of "fair" women. A woman should be a "true knight" as well as a man. Leigh Hunt (1784-1859).
King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport, And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court; The nobles filled the benches, with the ladies in their pride, And 'mong them sat the Count de Lorge with one for whom he sighed: And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show, Valour, and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramp'd and roar'd the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another, Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; ​The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there."
De Lorge's love o'erheard the King,—a beauteous lively dame With smiling lips and sharp, bright eyes, which always seem'd the same: She thought, "The Count, my lover, is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine."
She dropp'd her glove, to prove his love, then look'd at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leapt among the lions wild: His leap was quick, return was quick, he has regain'd his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face. "Well done!" cried Francis, "bravely done!" and he rose from where he sat: "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that."
Leigh Hunt.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Homes of England

The Homes of England.
I wonder if the English people appreciate "The Homes of England." It is a stately poem worthy of a Goethe or a Shakespeare. England is distinctively a country of homes, pretty, little, humble homes as well as stately palaces and castles, homes well made of stone or brick for the most part, and clad with ivy and roses. Who would not be proud to have had such a home as Ann Hathaway's humble cottage or one of the little huts in the Lake District? The homes of America are often more palatial, especially in small cities, but the use of wood in America makes them less substantial than the slate-and-brick houses of England. (1749-1835.)
The stately homes of England! How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childish tale is told, Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old.
The blessèd homes of England! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours! Solemn, yet sweet, the church-bell's chime Floats through their woods at morn; ​All other sounds, in that still time, Of breeze and leaf are born.
The cottage homes of England! By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlets' fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free, fair homes of England! Long, long, in hut and hall May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall! And green forever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God!
Felicia Hemans.
# Poems (Marianne Moore)

POEMS
BY MARIANNE MOORE
LONDON
THE EGOIST PRESS
2 Robert Street, Adelphi, W.C.
1921
Several of these poems appeared in The Egoist;
others in The Dial, Others and Contact.
​CONTENTS
Printed at the Pelican Press, 2 Carmelite Street, E. C.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/And when I am entombèd in my place

And when I am entombèd in my place, Be it remembered of a single man, He never, though he dearly loved his race, For fear of human eyes swerved from his plan.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Alphonso of Castile

ALPHONSO OF CASTILE
I, Alphonso, live and learn, Seeing Nature go astern. Things deteriorate in kind; Lemons run to leaves and rind; Meagre crop of figs and limes; Shorter days and harder times. Flowering April cools and dies In the insufficient skies. Imps, at high midsummer, blot Half the sun's disk with a spot; 'Twill not now avail to tan Orange cheek or skin of man. Roses bleach, the goats are dry, Lisbon quakes, the people cry. Yon pale, scrawny fisher fools, Gaunt as bitterns in the pools, Are no brothers of my blood;— ​They discredit Adamhood. Eyes of gods! ye must have seen, O'er your ramparts as ye lean, The general debility; Of genius the sterility; Mighty projects countermanded; Rash ambition, brokenhanded; Puny man and scentless rose Tormenting Pan to double the dose. Rebuild or ruin: either fill Of vital force the wasted rill, Or tumble all again in heap To weltering Chaos and to sleep.
Say, Seigniors, are the old Niles dry, Which fed the veins of earth and sky, That mortals miss the loyal heats, Which drove them erst to social feats; Now, to a savage selfness grown, Think nature barely serves for one; With science poorly mask their hurt; And vex the gods with question pert, Immensely curious whether you Still are rulers, or Mildew?
Masters, I 'm in pain with you; Masters, I 'll be plain with you; In my palace of Castile, I, a king, for kings can feel. ​There my thoughts the matter roll, And solve and oft resolve the whole. And, for I 'm styled Alphonse the Wise, Ye shall not fail for sound advice. Before ye want a drop of rain, Hear the sentiment of Spain.
You have tried famine: no more try it; Ply us now with a full diet; Teach your pupils now with plenty, For one sun supply us twenty. I have thought it thoroughly over,— State of hermit, state of lover; We must have society, We cannot spare variety. Hear you, then, celestial fellows! Fits not to be overzealous; Steads not to work on the clean jump, Nor wine nor brains perpetual pump. Men and gods are too extense; Could you slacken and condense? Your rank overgrowths reduce Till your kinds abound with juice? Earth, crowded, cries, 'Too many men!' My counsel is, kill nine in ten, And bestow the shares of all On the remnant decimal. Add their nine lives to this cat; Stuff their nine brains in one hat; ​Make his frame and forces square With the labors he must dare; Thatch his flesh, and even his years With the marble which he rears. There, growing slowly old at ease No faster than his planted trees, He may, by warrant of his age, In schemes of broader scope engage. So shall ye have a man of the sphere Fit to grace the solar year.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Art

ART
Give to barrows, trays and pans Grace and glimmer of romance; Bring the moonlight into noon Hid in gleaming piles of stone; On the city's paved street Plant gardens lined with lilacs sweet; Let spouting fountains cool the air, Singing in the sun-baked square; Let statue, picture, park and hall, ​Ballad, flag and festival, The past restore, the day adorn, And make to-morrow a new morn. So shall the drudge in dusty frock Spy behind the city clock Retinues of airy kings, Skirts of angels, starry wings, His fathers shining in bright fables, His children fed at heavenly tables. 'T is the privilege of Art Thus to play its cheerful part, Man on earth to acclimate And bend the exile to his fate, And, moulded of one element With the days and firmament, Teach him on these as stairs to climb, And live on even terms with Time; Whilst upper life the slender rill Of human sense doth overfill.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Bacchus

BACCHUS
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew In the belly of the grape, Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through, Under the Andes to the Cape, Suffer no savor of the earth to scape.
Let its grapes the morn salute From a nocturnal root, Which feels the acrid juice Of Styx and Erebus; And turns the woe of Night, By its own craft, to a more rich delight.
We buy ashes for bread; We buy diluted wine; Give me of the true,— Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled Among the silver hills of heaven Draw everlasting dew; Wine of wine, Blood of the world, Form of forms, and mould of statures, That I intoxicated, And by the draught assimilated, May float at pleasure through all natures; ​The bird-language rightly spell, And that which roses say so well.
Wine that is shed Like the torrents of the sun Up the horizon walls, Or like the Atlantic streams, which run When the South Sea calls.
Water and bread, Food which needs no transmuting, Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting, Wine which is already man, Food which teach and reason can.
Wine which Music is,— Music and wine are one,— That I, drinking this, Shall hear far Chaos talk with me; Kings unborn shall walk with me; And the poor grass shall plot and plan What it will do when it is man. Quickened so, will I unlock Every crypt of every rock.
I thank the joyful juice For all I know;— Winds of remembering Of the ancient being blow, ​And seeming-solid walls of use Open and flow.
Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine; Retrieve the loss of me and mine! Vine for vine be antidote, And the grape requite the lote! Haste to cure the old despair,— Reason in Nature's lotus drenched, The memory of ages quenched; Give them again to shine; Let wine repair what this undid; And where the infection slid, A dazzling memory revive; Refresh the faded tints, Recut the aged prints, And write my old adventures with the pen Which on the first day drew, Upon the tablets blue, The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/A dull uncertain brain

A dull uncertain brain, But gifted yet to know That God has cherubim who go Singing an immortal strain, Immortal here below. I know the mighty bards, I listen when they sing, And now I know The secret store Which these explore When they with torch of genius pierce The tenfold clouds that cover The riches of the universe From God's adoring lover. ​And if to me it is not given To fetch one ingot thence Of the unfading gold of Heaven His merchants may dispense, Yet well I know the royal mine, And know the sparkle of its ore, Know Heaven's truth from lies that shine— Explored they teach us to explore.
1831.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Beauty

BEAUTY
Was never form and never face So sweet to Seyd as only grace Which did not slumber like a stone, But hovered gleaming and was gone. Beauty chased he everywhere, In flame, in storm, in clouds of air. He smote the lake to feed his eye ​With the beryl beam of the broken wave; He flung in pebbles well to hear The moment's music which they gave. Oft pealed for him a lofty tone From nodding pole and belting zone. He heard a voice none else could hear From centred and from errant sphere. The quaking earth did quake in rhyme, Seas ebbed and flowed in epic chime. In dens of passion, and pits of woe, He saw strong Eros struggling through, To sun the dark and solve the curse, And beam to the bounds of the universe. While thus to love he gave his days In loyal worship, scorning praise, How spread their lures for him in vain Thieving Ambition and paltering Gain! He thought it happier to be dead, To die for Beauty, than live for bread.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Astræa

ASTRÆA
Each the herald is who wrote His rank, and quartered his own coat. There is no king nor sovereign state That can fix a hero's rate; Each to all is venerable, Cap-a-pie invulnerable, Until he write, where all eyes rest, Slave or master on his breast. I saw men go up and down, In the country and the town, With this tablet on their neck, 'Judgment and a judge we seek.' Not to monarchs they repair, Nor to learned jurist's chair; But they hurry to their peers, To their kinsfolk and their dears; Louder than with speech they pray,— 'What am I? companion, say.' And the friend not hesitates To assign just place and mates; Answers not in word or letter, Yet is understood the better; Each to each a looking-glass, Reflects his figure that doth pass. ​Every wayfarer he meets What himself declared repeats, What himself confessed records, Sentences him in his words; The form is his own corporal form, And his thought the penal worm. Yet shine forever virgin minds, Loved by stars and purest winds, Which, o'er passion throned sedate, Have not hazarded their state; Disconcert the searching spy, Rendering to a curious eye The durance of a granite ledge. To those who gaze from the sea's edge It is there for benefit; It is there for purging light; There for purifying storms; And its depths reflect all forms; It cannot parley with the mean,— Pure by impure is not seen. For there 's no sequestered grot, Lone mountain tarn, or isle forgot, But Justice, journeying in the sphere, Daily stoops to harbor there.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Be of good cheer, brave spirit; steadfastly

Be of good cheer, brave spirit; steadfastly Serve that low whisper thou hast served; for know, God hath a select family of sons Now scattered wide thro' earth, and each alone, Who are thy spiritual kindred, and each one By constant service to that inward law, Is weaving the sublime proportions Of a true monarch's soul. Beauty and strength, ​The riches of a spotless memory, The eloquence of truth, the wisdom got By searching of a clear and loving eye That seeth as God seeth. These are their gifts, And Time, who keeps God's word, brings on the day To seal the marriage of these minds with thine, Thine everlasting lovers. Ye shall be The salt of all the elements, world of the world.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Berrying

BERRYING
'May be true what I had heard,— Earth's a howling wilderness, Truculent with fraud and force,' Said I, strolling through the pastures, And along the river-side. Caught among the blackberry vines, Feeding on the Ethiops sweet, Pleasant fancies overtook me. I said, 'What influence me preferred, Elect, to dreams thus beautiful?' The vines replied, 'And didst thou deem No wisdom from our berries went?'
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/April

APRIL
The April winds are magical And thrill our tuneful frames; The garden walks are passional To bachelors and dames. The hedge is gemmed with diamonds, The air with Cupids full, The cobweb clues of Rosamond Guide lovers to the pool. Each dimple in the water, Each leaf that shades the rock Can cozen, pique and flatter, Can parley and provoke. Goodfellow, Puck and goblins, Know more than any book. Down with your doleful problems, And court the sunny brook. The south-winds are quick-witted, The schools are sad and slow, The masters quite omitted The lore we care to know.