OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Pieces People Ask For/Puzzled

PUZZLED.
You ask me whether I'm High Church,
You ask me whether I'm Low:
I wish you'd tell the difference,
For I'm sure that I don't know.
I'm just a plain old body,
And my brain works pretty slow;
So I don't know whether I'm High Church,
And I don't know whether I'm Low.
I'm trying to be a Christian,
In the plain, old-fashioned way,
Laid down in my mother's Bible,
And I read it every day,—
Our blessed Lord's life in the Gospels,
Or a comforting Psalm of old,
Or a bit from the Revelation
Of the city whose streets are gold.
Then I pray,—why, I'm generally praying,
Though I don't always kneel or speak out,
But I ask the dear Lord, and keep asking,
Till I fear he is all tired out;
A piece of the Litany sometimes,
The Collect, perhaps, for the day,
Or a scrap of a prayer that my mother
So long ago learned me to say.
But now my poor memory's failing,
And often and often I find
That never a prayer from the Prayer-book
Will seem to come into my mind.
But I know what I want, and I ask it,
And I make up the words as I go:
Do you think that shows I ain't High Church?
Do you think that it means I am Low?
My blessed old husband has left me,
'Tis years since God took him away:
I know he is safe, well, and happy,
And yet, when I kneel down to pray,
Perhaps it is wrong, but I never
Leave the old man's name out of my prayer,
But I ask the dear Lord to do for him
What I would do if I was there.
Of course he can do it much better;
But he knows, and he surely won't mind
The worry about her old husband,
Of the old woman left here behind.
So I pray and I pray for the old man,
And I'm sure that I shall till I die;
So maybe that proves I ain't Low Church,
And maybe it shows I am High.
My old father was never a Churchman,
But a Scotch Presbyterian saint:
Still his white head is shining in heaven,
I don't care who says that it ain't;
To one of our blessed Lord's mansions
That old man was certain to go:
And now do you think I am High Church?
Are you sure that I ain't pretty Low?
I tell you, it's all just a muddle,
Too much for a body like me;
I'll wait till I join my old husband,
And then we shall see what we'll see.
Don't ask me again, if you please, sir,
For really it worries me so;
And I don't know whether I'm High Church,
And I don't know whether I'm Low.
# Pieces People Ask For/Story of a Bedstead

STORY OF A BEDSTEAD.
It was night.
The boarding-house was wrapt in tenebrous gloom, faintly tinted with an odor of kerosene.
​Suddenly there arose on the air a yell, followed by wild objurgations and furious anathemas.
Then there was a clanking and rattling, as of an overturned picket-fence, and another yell with more anathemas. The fatted boarders listened, and, ghostly clad, tip-toed along to Buffum's room,—he of Buffum & Bird, second-hand furniture dealers. As they stood there, there was a whiz, a grinding, a rattling and a bang, and more yells. They consulted, and knocked on the door.
"Come in."
"Open it."
"I can't."
Convinced that Buffum was in his last agony, they knocked in the door with a bedpost.
The sight was ghastly. Clasped between two sturdy, though slender, frames of walnut, Buffum, pale as a ghost, was six feet up in the air. He couldn't move. He was caught like a bear in a log-trap.
"What on earth is it?" they said.
"Bedstead—combination. New patent I was tellin' you about," gasped Buffum.
His story was simple, though tearful. He had brought it home that day; and, after using it for a writing-desk, had opened it out and made his bed. He was going peacefully to dream-land, when he rolled over, and accidentally touched a spring. The faithful invention immediately became a double crib, and turned Buffum into a squalling wafer. Then he struggled, and was reaching around for the spring, when the patent bedstead thought it would show off some more, and straightened out, and shot up in the air, and was a clothes-horse. Buffum said he didn't like to be clothes, and he would give the thing to anybody that would get him out. They said they would try. They didn't want any such fire-extinguisher as that for their trouble, but they would try. They inspected it cautiously. They walked all around it. Then the commission-merchant laid his little finger on the top end of it. The thing snorted and reared as if it had been shot, slapped over with a bang, and became an extension-table for ten people. When they recovered from the panic, they came back. They found the commission-merchant in the corner trying to get breath enough to swear, while he rubbed his shins. Buffum had disappeared, but they knew he had not gone far. The invention appeared to ​have taken a fancy to him, and incorporated him into the firm, so to speak. He was down underneath, straddling one of the legs, with his head jammed into the mattress. Nobody dared to touch it. The landlady got a club and reached for its vital parts, but could not find them. She hammered her breath away; and when she got through, and dropped the club in despair, the thing spread out its arms with a gasp and a rattle, turned over twice, and slapped itself into a bed again, with Buffum peacefully among the sheets. He held his breath for a minute; and then, watching his opportunity, made a flying-leap to the floor, just in time to save himself from being a folding-screen.
A man with a black eye and cut lip told the "Wasp" editor about it yesterday. He said he owned the patent, that Buffum had been explaining to him how it worked.
From the San Francisco "Wasp."
# Poems (Ryan)

POEMS
by MARY C. RYAN
NEW YORK JOHN B. ALDEN, PUBLISHER 1890
Copyright, 1890, by MARY RYAN.
TO THE BELOVED MEMORY OF HER FATHER,
P. M. RYAN, M.D.,
THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
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: Second Series (Dickinson)/At half-past three a single bird

III.
AT half-past three a single bird Unto a silent sky Propounded but a single term Of cautious melody.
At half-past four, experiment Had subjugated test, And lo! her silver principle Supplanted all the rest.
At half-past seven, element Nor implement was seen, And place was where the presence was, Circumference between.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/At least to pray is left, is left

​184 POEMS.
                III.
AT least to pray is left, is left.
O Jesus! in the air
I know not which thy chamber is, — I'm knocking everywhere.
Thou stirrest earthquake in the South,
And maelstrom in the sea;
Say, Jesus Christ of Nazareth,
Hast thou no arm for me?
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/By the Sea

XIX.
BY THE SEA.
I STARTED early, took my dog, And visited the sea; The mermaids in the basement Came out to look at me,
And frigates in the upper floor Extended hempen hands, Presuming me to be a mouse Aground, upon the sands.
But no man moved me till the tide Went past my simple shoe, And past my apron and my belt, And past my bodice too,
And made as he would eat me up As wholly as a dew Upon a dandelion's sleeve— And then I started too. ​And he—he followed close behind; I felt his silver heel Upon my ankle,—then my shoes Would overflow with pearl.
Until we met the solid town, No man he seemed to know; And bowing with a mighty look At me, the sea withdrew.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Called Back

LVII.
CALLED BACK.
JUST lost when I was saved! Just felt the world go by! Just girt me for the onset with eternity, When breath blew back, And on the other side I heard recede the disappointed tide!
Therefore, as one returned, I feel, Odd secrets of the line to tell! Some sailor, skirting foreign shores, Some pale reporter from the awful doors Before the seal!
Next time, to stay! Next time, the things to see By ear unheard, Unscrutinized by eye.
Next time, to tarry, While the ages steal,— Slow tramp the centuries, And the cycles wheel.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/April

IX.
APRIL.
AN altered look about the hills; A Tyrian light the village fills; A wider sunrise in the dawn; A deeper twilight on the lawn; A print of a vermilion foot; A purple finger on the slope; A flippant fly upon the pane; A spider at his trade again; An added strut in chanticleer; A flower expected everywhere; An axe shrill singing in the woods; Fern-odors on untravelled roads,— All this, and more I cannot tell, A furtive look you know as well, And Nicodemus' mystery Receives its annual reply.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/As imperceptibly as grief

​168 POEMS.
             XLV.
AS imperceptibly as grief
The summer lapsed away, — Too imperceptible, at last,
To seem like perfidy.
A quietness distilled,
As twilight long begun,
Or Nature, spending with herself
Sequestered afternoon.
The dusk drew earlier in,
The morning foreign shone, — A courteous, yet harrowing grace,
As guest who would be gone.
And thus, without a wing,
Or service of a keel,
Our summer made her light escape
Into the beautiful.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/As by the dead we love to sit

XII.
As by the dead we love to sit, Become so wondrous dear, As for the lost we grapple, Though all the rest are here,—
In broken mathematics We estimate our prize, Vast, in its fading ratio, To our penurious eyes!
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/At Home

VIII.
AT HOME.
THE night was wide, and furnished scant With but a single star, That often as a cloud it met Blew out itself for fear.
The wind pursued the little bush, And drove away the leaves November left; then clambered up And fretted in the eaves.
No squirrel went abroad; A dog's belated feet Like intermittent plush were heard Adown the empty street.
To feel if blinds be fast, And closer to the fire Her little rocking-chair to draw, And shiver for the poor,
The housewife's gentle task. "How pleasanter," said she Unto the sofa opposite, "The sleet than May -- no thee!"
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/At Length

XXVIII.
AT LENGTH.
HER final summer was it,
And yet we guessed it not; If tenderer industriousness Pervaded her, we thought
A further force of life Developed from within, — When Death lit all the shortness up,
And made the hurry plain.
We wondered at our blindness, — When nothing was to see But her Carrara guide-post, — At our stupidity,
When, duller than our dulness, The busy darling lay,
So busy was she, finishing, So leisurely were we!
# Poems (McDonald)/The Promised Land

THE PROMISED LAND.
"They thought scorn of that pleasant land, and gave no credence unto his word."
# Poems (Sackville)/Pan and the Maiden

POEMS
# Poems (Acton)/A Tribute to Campbell, the Poet

A TRIBUTE TO CAMPBELL, THE POET.
[As the remains of Campbell were being lowered into the grave, a Polish nobleman who attended the funeral took a handful of earth which had been brought from the tomb of Kosciusko, and scattered it over the coffin of him who had so warmly pourtrayed the wrongs and woes of Poland].
# Poems (Dickinson)/New feet within my garden go

III.
NATURE.
I.
New feet within my garden go, New fingers stir the sod; A troubadour upon the elm Betrays the solitude.
New children play upon the green, New weary sleep below; And still the pensive spring returns, And still the punctual snow!
# Poems (Dickinson)/On this long storm the rainbow rose

V.
On this long storm the rainbow rose, On this late morn the sun; The clouds, like listless elephants, Horizons straggled down.
The birds rose smiling in their nests, The gales indeed were done; Alas! how heedless were the eyes On whom the summer shone!
The quiet nonchalance of death No daybreak can bestir; The slow archangel's syllables Must awaken her.
# Poems (Dickinson)/Proof

VIII.
PROOF.
That I did always love, I bring thee proof: That till I loved
I did not love enough.
That I shall love alway, I offer thee That love is life,
And life hath immortality.
This, dost thou doubt, sweet? Then have I Nothing to show But Calvary.
# Poems (Dickinson)/Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower

IV.
Perhaps you'd like to buy a flower? But I could never sell. If you would like to borrow Until the daffodil
Unties her yellow bonnet Beneath the village door, Until the bees, from clover rows Their hock and sherry draw,
Why, I will lend until just then, But not an hour more!
# Poems (Dickinson)/One dignity delays for all

IV.
TIME AND ETERNITY.
I.
One dignity delays for all, One mitred afternoon. None can avoid this purple, None evade this crown.
Coach it insures, and footmen, Chamber and state and throng; Bells, also, in the village, As we ride grand along.
What dignified attendants, What service when we pause! How loyally at parting Their hundred hats they raise!
How pomp surpassing ermine, When simple you and I Present our meek escutcheon, And claim the rank to die!
# Poems (Dickinson)/Our share of night to bear

II.
OUR share of night to bear, Our share of morning, Our blank in bliss to fill, Our blank in scorning.
Here a star, and there a star, Some lose their way. Here a mist, and there a mist, Afterwards—day!
# Poems (Dickinson)/Playmates

XVIII.
PLAYMATES.
God permits industrious angels Afternoons to play. I met one,—forgot my school-mates, All, for him, straightway.
God calls home the angels promptly At the setting sun; I missed mine. How dreary marbles, After playing Crown!
# Poems (Dickinson)/Prelude

THIS is my letter to the world, That never wrote to me,— The simple news that Nature told, With tender majesty.
Her message is committed To hands I cannot see; For love of her, sweet countrymen, Judge tenderly of me!
# Poems (Dickinson)/Presentiment is that long shadow

XVI.
Presentiment is that long shadow on the lawn Indicative that suns go down; The notice to the startled grass That darkness is about to pass.
# Poems (Dickinson)/Much madness is divinest sense

XI.
Much madness is divinest sense To a discerning eye; Much sense the starkest madness. 'T is the majority In this, as all, prevails. Assent, and you are sane; Demur,—you're straightway dangerous, And handled with a chain.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/For a' That

For a' That.
Robert Burns, the plowman and poet, "dinnered wi' a lord." The story goes that he was put at the second table. That lord is dead, but Robert Burns still lives. He is immortal. It is "the survival of the fittest." "For a' That and a' That" is a poem that wipes out the superficial value put on money and other externalities. This poem is more valuable in education than good penmanship or good spelling. (1759-96.)
Is there, for honest poverty, That hangs his head, and a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that; For a' that, and a' that, Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that!
What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin-gray, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, though e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that!
Ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord, Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Though hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that; For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, and a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.
​A prince can make a belted knight, A marquis, duke, and a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he maunna fa' that! For a' that, and a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may— As come it will for a' that That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, and a' that; For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that!
Robert Burns.
* ↑ Coarse woolen clothes.
* ↑ Impudent fellow.
* ↑ Fool: blockhead.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/From Casa Guidi Windows

From Casa Guidi Windows.
JULIET OF NATIONS.
I heard last night a little child go singing 'Neath Casa Guidi windows, by the church, O bella libertà, O bella!—stringing The same words still on notes he went in search So high for, you concluded the upspringing Of such a nimble bird to sky from perch Must leave the whole bush in a tremble green, And that the heart of Italy must beat, While such a voice had leave to rise serene 'Twixt church and palace of a Florence street: A little child, too, who not long had been By mother's finger steadied on his feet, And still O bella libertà he sang.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Gathering Song of Donald Dhu

Gathering Song of Donald Dhu.
Jon, do you remember when you used to spout "Pibroch of Donald Dhu"? I think you were ten years old. Sir Walter Scott's men all have a genius for standing up to their guns, and boys gather up the man's genius when reciting his verse. (1771-1832.)
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war-array, Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlochy. ​Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr'd, The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended; Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page, and groom, Tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume Blended with heather, Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Knell for the onset!
Sir Walter Scott.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/He Prayeth Best

He Prayeth Best.
These two stanzas, the very heart of that great poem, "The Ancient Mariner," by Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834), sum up the lesson of this masterpiece—"Insensibility is a crime."
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best who loveth best All things, both great and small: For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.
Samuel T. Coleridge.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Heaven Is Not Reached at a Single Bound

Heaven Is Not Reached at a Single Bound.
(A FRAGMENT.)
"We build the ladder by which we climb" is a line worthy of any poet. J. G. Holland (1819-81) has immortalised himself in this line, at least.
Heaven is not reached at a single bound, But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round.
I count this thing to be grandly true: That a noble deed is a step toward God,— Lifting the soul from the common clod To a purer air and a broader view.
J. G. Holland.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Hohenlinden

Hohenlinden.
On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th' untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
​But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.
By torch and trumpet fast array'd Each horseman drew his battle-blade, And furious every charger neigh'd To join the dreadful revelry.
Then shook the hills with thunder riven, Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flash'd the red artillery.
But redder yet that light shall glow On Linden's hills of stainèd snow; And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph'rous canopy.
The combat deepens. On, ye brave Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!
Few, few shall part, where many meet! The snow shall be their winding-sheet, And every turf beneath their feet Shall be a soldier's sepulcher.
Thomas Campbell.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/To America

To America.
"To America," included by permission of the Poet Laureate, is a good poem and a great poem. It is a keen thrust at the common practice of teaching American children to hate the English of these days on account of the actions of a silly old king dead a hundred years. Alfred Austin deserves great credit for this poem.
What is the voice I hear On the winds of the western sea? Sentinel, listen from out Cape Clear And say what the voice may be. 'Tis a proud free people calling loud to a people proud and free.
And it says to them: "Kinsmen, hail! We severed have been too long. Now let us have done with a worn-out tale— The tale of an ancient wrong— ​And our friendship last long as our love doth and be stronger than death is strong."
Answer them, sons of the self-same race, And blood of the self-same clan; Let us speak with each other face to face And answer as man to man, And loyally love and trust each other as none but free men can.
Now fling them out to the breeze, Shamrock, Thistle, and Rose, And the Star-spangled Banner unfurl with these— A message to friends and foes Wherever the sails of peace are seen and wherever the war-wind blows—
A message to bond and thrall to wake, For wherever we come, we twain, The throne of the tyrant shall rock and quake, And his menace be void and vain; For you are lords of a strong land and we are lords of the main.
Yes, this is the voice of the bluff March gale; We severed have been too long, But now we have done with a worn-out tale— The tale of an ancient wrong— And our friendship last long as love doth last and stronger than death is strong.
Alfred Austin.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/True Royalty

True Royalty.
"True Royalty" and "Playing Robinson Crusoe" are pleasing stanzas from "The Just So Stories" of Rudyard Kipling (1865-).
There was never a Queen like Balkis, From here to the wide world's end; But Balkis talked to a butterfly As you would talk to a friend.
There was never a King like Solomon, Not since the world began; But Solomon talked to a butterfly As a man would talk to a man.
​She was Queen of Sabaea— And he was Asia's Lord But they both of 'em talked to butterflies When they took their walks abroad.
Rudyard Kipling.
(In "The Just So Stories.")
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Willie Winkie

Willie Winkie.
"Wee Willie Winkie," by William Miller (1810-72), is included in this volume out of respect to an eight-year-old child who chose it from among hundreds. We had one poetry hour every week, and he studied and recited it with unabated interest to the end of the year.
Wee Willie Winkie rins through the town, Up-stairs and doon-stairs, in his nicht-gown, Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, "Are the weans in their bed?—for it's now ten o'clock."
​Hey, Willie Winkie! are ye comin' ben? The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' hen, The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna gie a cheep; But here 's a waukrife laddie that winna fa' asleep.
Onything but sleep, ye rogue! glow'rin' like the moon, Rattlin' in an airn jug wi' an airn spoon, Rumblin' tumblin' roun' about, crowin' like a cock, Skirlin' like a kenna-what—wauknin' sleepin' folk.
Hey, Willie Winkie! the wean's in a creel! Waumblin' aff a body's knee like a vera eel, Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her thrums,— Hey, Willie Winkie!—See, there he comes!
Wearie is the mither that has a storie wean, A wee stumpie stoussie that canna rin his lane, That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll close an ee; But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.
William Miller.