OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Patriotism/The Flag on the Farm

The Flag on the Farm
We’ve raised a flagpole on the farm And flung Old Glory to the sky, And it’s another touch of charm That seems to cheer the passer-by, But more than that, no matter where We’re laboring in wood and field, We turn and see it in the air, Our promise of a greater yield. It whispers to us all day long From dawn to dusk: “Be true, be strong; Who falters now with plow or hoe Gives comfort to his country’s foe.”
It seems to me I’ve never tried To do so much about the place, Nor been so slow to come inside. But since I’ve got the flag to face, Each night when I come home to rest I feel that I must look up there And say: “Old Flag, I’ve done my best, Today I’ve tried to do my share.” And sometimes, just to catch the breeze, I stop my work, and o’er the trees Old Glory fairly shouts my way: “You’re shirking far too much today!”
The help have caught the spirit, too; The hired man takes off his cap Before the old red, white, and blue, Then to the horses says: “Giddap!” And starting bravely to the field He tells the milkmaid by the door: “We’re going to make these acres yield More than they’ve ever done before.” She smiles to hear his gallant brag, Then drops a curtsey to the flag, And in her eyes there seems to shine A patriotism that is fine.
We’ve raised a flagpole on the farm And flung Old Glory to the sky, We’re far removed from war’s alarm, But courage here is running high. We’re doing things we never dreamed We’d ever find the time to do; Deeds that impossible once seemed Each morning now we hurry through, The flag now waves above our toil And sheds its glory on the soil, And boy and man look up to it As if to say: “I’ll do my bit!”
# Poems of Patriotism/The Mother on the Sidewalk

The Mother on the Sidewalk
The mother on the sidewalk as the troops are marching by Is the mother of Old Glory that is waving in the sky. Men have fought to keep it splendid, men have died to keep it bright, But that flag was born of woman and her sufferings day and night; ’Tis her sacrifice has made it, and once more we ought to pray For the brave and loyal mother of the boy that goes away.
There are days of grief before her, there are hours that she will weep, There are nights of anxious waiting when her fear will banish sleep; She has heard her country calling and has risen to the test, And has placed upon the altar of the nation’s need, her best. And no man shall ever suffer in the turmoil of the fray
The anguish of the mother of the boy who goes away.
You may boast men’s deeds of glory, you may tell their courage great, But to die is easier service than alone to sit and wait, And I hail the little mother, with the tear-stained face and grave Who has given the flag a soldier—she’s the bravest of the brave. And that banner we are proud of, with its red and blue and white Is a lasting tribute holy to all mothers’ love of right.
# Poems of Patriotism/The Big Deeds

The Big Deeds
We are done with little thinking and we’re done with little deeds, We are done with petty conduct and we’re done with narrow creeds; We have grown to men and women, and we’ve noble work to do, And today we are a people with a larger point of view. In a big way we must labor, if our flag shall always fly, In a big way some must suffer, in a big way some must die.
There must be no little dreaming in the visions that we see, There must be no selfish planning in the joys that are to be; We have set our faces eastward to the rising of the sun That shall light a better nation, and there’s big work to be done. And the petty souls and narrow, seeking only selfish gain,
Shall be vanquished by the toilers big enough to suffer pain.
It’s a big task we have taken; ’tis for others we must fight. We must see our duty clearly in a white and shining light; We must quit our little circles where we’ve moved in little ways, And work, as men and women, for the bigger, better days. We must quit our selfish thinking and our narrow views and creeds, And as people, big and splendid, we must do the bigger deeds.
# Poems of Patriotism/The Call to Service

The Call to Service
These are the days when little thoughts Must cease men’s minds to occupy; The nation needs men’s larger creeds, Big men must answer to her cry; No longer selfish ways we tread, The greater task lies just ahead.
These are the days when petty things By all men must be thrust aside; The country needs men’s finest deeds, Awakened is the nation’s pride; Men must forsake their selfish strife Once more to guard their country’s life.
# Poems of Patriotism/The Christmas Box

The Christmas Box
Oh, we have shipped his Christmas box, with ribbons red ’tis tied, And he shall find the things he likes from them he loves inside, But he must miss the kisses true and all the laughter gay And he must miss the smiles of home upon his Christmas Day.
He’ll spend his Christmas ’neath the flag; he’ll miss each merry face, Old Glory smiling down on him must take his mother’s place, Yet in the Christmas box we’ve sent, in fancy he will find The laughter and the tears of joy that he has left behind.
His mother’s tenderness is there, his father’s kindly way, And all that went last year to make his merry Christmas Day;
He’ll see once more his sister’s smile, he’ll hear the baby shout, And as he opens every gift we’ll gather round about.
He cannot come to share with us the joys of Christmas Day; The flag has called to him, and he is serving far away. Undaunted, unafraid, and fine he stands to duty grim, And so this Christmas we have tried to ship ourselves to him.
# Poems of Patriotism/The Joy To Be

The Joy To Be
Oh, mother, be you brave of heart and keep your bright eyes shining; Some day the smiles of joy shall start and you shall cease repining. Beyond the dim and distant line the days of peace are waiting, When you shall have your soldier fine, and men shall turn from hating.
Oh, mother, bear the pain awhile, as long ago you bore it; You suffered then to win his smile, and you were happier for it; And now you suffer once again, and bear your weight of sorrow; Yet you shall thrill with gladness when he wins the glad tomorrow.
Oh, mother, when the cannons roar and all the brave are fighting, Remember that the son you bore the wrongs of earth is righting;
Remember through the hours of pain that he with all his brothers Is battling there to win again a happy world for mothers.
# Poems of Patriotism/The Call

The Call
Some will heed the call to arms, But all must heed the call to grit; The dreamers on the distant farms Must rally now to do their bit. The whirring lathes in factories great Will sing the martial songs of strife; Upon the emery wheel of fate We’re grinding now the nation’s life.
The call is not alone to guns, This is not but a battle test; The world has summoned free men’s sons In every field to do their best. The call has come to every man To reach the summit of his powers; To stand to service where he can; A mighty duty now is ours.
We must be stalwarts in the field Where peace has always kept her throne, No door against the need is sealed, No man today can live alone.
The young apprentice at the bench, The wise inventor, old and gray, Serve with the soldier in the trench, All warriors for the better day.
Oh, man of science, unto you The call for service now has come! Mechanic, banker, lawyer, too, Have you not heard the stirring drum? Oh, humble digger in the ditch, Bend to your spade and do your best, And prove America is rich In manhood fine for every test.
Each man beneath the starry flag Must live his noblest through the strife, If tyranny is not to drag Into the mire the best of life. Though some will wear our uniform, We face today a common fate And all must bravely breast the storm And heed the call for courage great.
# Poems of Patriotism/The Honor Roll

The Honor Roll
The boys upon the honor roll, God bless them all, I pray! God watch them when they sleep at night, and guard them through the day. We’ve stamped their names upon our walls, the list in glory grows, Our brave boys and our splendid boys who stand to meet our foes.
Oh, here are sons of mothers fair and fathers fine and true, The little ones of yesterday, the children that we knew; We thought of them as youngsters gay, still laughing at their games, And then we found the honor roll emblazoned with their names.
We miss their laughter and their cheer; it seems but yesterday We had them here to walk with us, and now they’ve marched away.
And here where once their smiles were seen we keep a printed scroll; The absent boy we long to see is on the honor roll.
So quickly did the summons come we scarcely marked the change, One day life marched its normal pace, the next all things seemed strange, And when we questioned where they were, the sturdiest of us all, We saw the silent honor roll on each familiar wall.
The laughter that we knew has gone; the merry voice of youth No longer rings where graybeards sit, discussing somber truth. No longer jests are flung about to rouse our weary souls, For they who meant so much to us are on our honor rolls.
# Poems of Patriotism/The New Year

The New Year
Come you with dangers to fright us? or hazards to try out our souls? Then may you find us undaunted; determined to get to our goals. Now, white are the pages you bring us to fill with the tales of our deeds, And I pray we shall square at the finish the work of our lives with our creeds.
Oh, child of a year, do you wonder what here upon earth you shall find? America shows you a people united in purpose and mind; Whatever you bring us of danger, whatever you hold to affright, I pray that we never shall lower our standards of truth and of right.
You find us a people united, full pledged to the work of the world, To banish the despot and tyrant, our banner in battle’s unfurled;
And here to a world that is bleeding and weary and heartsick you come, Whatever you’ve brought us of duty—we’ll answer the call of your drum.
We may weep in our grief and our sorrows, we may bend ’neath the might of the blow, But never our courage shall falter, and never we’ll run from the foe. We know not how troubled our pathways shall be nor how sorely beset, But I pray we shall cling to our honor as men and never our purpose forget.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/"He is about my path,—and about my bed."

"He is about my path, and about my bed." Psalm 139th.
When first my infant feet essay'd,
The movements of my will to aid,
Parents and friends with watchful eye
To guard my tottering steps would fly.
But now, 'mid verdant paths I stray,
Or on the clear brook's margin play,
Till the Sun's parting lustres burn—
Go fearless forth and safe return,
For watchful ever by my side,
A father doth my footsteps guide.
 When weary on my pillow laid
Mild evening draws her curtaining shade,
And busy dreams, with changeful sway
Bring back the pleasures of the day,
When the last form that linger'd near,
My tender mother, ever dear,
Hath left her kiss, and breath'd her prayer,
And in sweet rest resign'd her care:
Still One, whose eye can never sleep,
Around my bed his watch doth keep.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/A Scripture Story

A Scripture Story.
Children, I'll tell a story of the sea,
And Him who walk'd upon it.
 It was night,
Dark night, and the loud winds howl'd fearfully
Along the madden'd billows. O'er these waves
In all their pride and anger, Jesus came.
—A ship lay tossing there, and the strain'd eyes
Of the storm-driven mariners were bent
On Him with terror, for they did not know
Their Master in that hour.
 But at the sound
Of his blest voice that cheer'd their fainting hearts,
Peter, with eager footstep hasted down
To meet his Lord. The wild and boisterous blast
Made him afraid, and the cold surge came up
Against his shuddering breast.
 "Save me!" he cried,
"Save, or I perish."
Then the Saviour's hand
Was stretch'd to succor him; even as it plucks
The soul that trusts him from the flood of death,
And gives it victory. Safe on the deck
Among the glad disciples, Peter stood,
Full of adoring gratitude, while all
Gave praise and glory to the Son of God.
—Then Peter learn'd he might not place his foot
Upon the ocean's stormy face and live.
Children, you know the reason. 'T is not given
To man to tread the sea. It riseth up,
And sweeps him like a feeble weed away.
But God doth do, what man attempts in vain.
And he who made the sea, can bid its waves
In all the madness of their stormy strength,
Spread a smooth pavement for his feet divine.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Baby of six months old, to her neighbor on his second birth-day

Baby of six months old, to her neighbour on his second birth-day.
The rolling earth
Your day of birth,
 Brings fair and fleeting,
And as a friend
I long to send
 My simple greeting.
Yet almost fear
To have you hear
 My poor inditing,
Your critic smile
Must scorn my style
 Of baby-writing.
Six months have shed
Upon my head
 But little knowledge,
While you are fit
In sense and wit
 To enter college.
My mother said
The map you'd spread
 And shew with ease,
All the globe boasts,
Realms, isles and coasts,
 And lakes and seas.
That you'd describe
The four-legged tribe
 Both great and small,
Both wild and tam'd
That Adam nam'd
 In Eden, all.
Years, at this rate
Will make you great,
 Or I'm mistaken,
Perhaps with Locke,
The crowd you'll mock
 Or shine like Bacon.
With Franklin's zeal
The lightning steal,
 And chain its rage,
Or nobly write
Your name like Dwight,
 On Heaven's own page.
Our sex I'm told
Are formed to hold
 A lower place,
Our powers of mind
Being far behind
 Your lordly race.
I've understood
That "household-good"
 Was our employment,
To cook and mend,
And babies tend,
 Our chief enjoyment.
'Tis very well,
I shan't rebel,
 And when I grow,
Shall like to make
Nice pies and cake,
 And share also.
But now good bye,
'Tis time that I
 Your patience spare,
May you each day
In love repay
 A parent's care.
# Poems for Children Sigourney

POEMS FOR CHILDREN.
BY MRS. L. H. SIGOURNEY.
"Poetry holds children from their play,
And old men from the chimney-corner."
Sir Philip Sidney.
HARTFORD:
CANFIELD & ROBINS.
1836.
Entered according to act of Congress, A. D. 1835,
By CANFIELD & ROBINS,
in the Clerk's Office of the District of Connecticut.
PREFACE.
TO PARENTS.
It is believed that Poetry might be made an important assistant to early education. It readily wins attention in the nursery. It wakes the mind from the dream that enwraps new-born existence,—as the song of the bird breaks the slumber of morning.
Perhaps, it is the native dialect of those powers that are earliest developed. In our care of infancy, we perceive that the heart is sooner a subject of discipline, than the understanding. Feeling and Fancy, put forth their ​ young perceptions, even before they are expected,—and Poetry, more successfully than the severer sciences, bends a spray to their embrace, or a prop for their aspirings.
Even first intercourse with the mind, may be higher than that of amusement. Coming into the nursery as it does, with the voice of song, it need not confine itself to unmeaning carols, or useless echoes. It may be as the sun-beam fitting the newly-broken soil for the future toil of the culturer. By quickening the intellect, and furnishing a pleasant aliment for memory,—it leads to that inquisitive research, which, next to application, secures proficiency in more laborious departments of knowledge.
But its principal affinity is with the heart, Its power of creating tender and indelible impressions has not always been fully ​appreciated. This renders it a most valuable adjunct, in moral and religious instruction. It is the natural ally of the mother. It comes with her, into the field, while the dews of morning are fresh,—and ere the tares have sprung up to trouble the good seed. Taking precedence of other Teachers,—it brings the listening infant, "sweet words of sweetly-uttered knowledge." It bespeaks the love of the cradle-sleeper, for the God and Father of us all;—and walking hand in hand with the child, amid the charms and melodies of Nature,—teaches of a clime, where beauty never fades, and melody is eternal.
L. H. S.
CONTENTS.
Page
# Poems for Children Sigourney/"He feedeth the young ravens that cry"

"He feedeth the young ravens that cry."
The new-fledg'd ravens leave the nest,
 And with a clamorous cry,
Uncertain wing, and ruffled breast,
 In broken circles fly.
Abandon'd by a parent's care,
 They famish'd press the sod,
And in the wildness of despair
 Demand their meat of God.
By him who feeds the ravenous bird
 And guards the sparrow's lot,
Shall our petitions be unheard?
 Our sorrowing sighs forgot?
Consider how the lilies grow,
 The young birds safely rove,
Nor fear in every time of wo
 To trust your Maker's love.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/A Prayer

A Prayer.
Giver of our every blessing,
 Thou, for whose unceasing care,
Earth is still her praise addressing,
 Hear thy little children's prayer.
Wisdom, with our stature grant us,
 Goodness with each growing year,
Nor let folly's wiles enchant us
 From our duty's sacred sphere.
Grant us hope when life is ending;
 When the pulse forsakes the breast,
May our spirit, upward tending,
 Father! in thy bosom rest.
# Poems by Wilfred Owen/Wild with all Regrets

WILD WITH ALL REGRETS
(Another version of "A Terre.")
To Siegfried Sassoon
My arms have mutinied against me—brutes! My fingers fidget like ten idle brats, My back’s been stiff for hours, damned hours. Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease. I can’t read. There: it’s no use. Take your book. A short life and a merry one, my buck! We said we’d hate to grow dead old. But now, Not to live old seems awful: not to renew My boyhood with my boys, and teach ’em hitting, Shooting and hunting,—all the arts of hurting! —Well, that’s what I learnt. That, and making money. Your fifty years in store seem none too many; But I’ve five minutes. God! For just two years To help myself to this good air of yours! One Spring! Is one too hard to spare? Too long? Spring air would find its own way to my lung, And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.
Yes, there’s the orderly. He’ll change the sheets When I’m lugged out, oh, couldn’t I do that? Here in this coffin of a bed, I’ve thought I’d like to kneel and sweep his floors for ever,— And ask no nights off when the bustle’s over, For I’d enjoy the dirt; who’s prejudiced Against a grimed hand when his own’s quite dust,— Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn? Dear dust,—in rooms, on roads, on faces' tan! I’d love to be a sweep’s boy, black as Town; Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load? A flea would do. If one chap wasn’t bloody, Or went stone-cold, I’d find another body.
Which I shan’t manage now. Unless it’s yours. I shall stay in you, friend, for some few hours. ​You'll feel my heavy spirit chill your chest, And climb your throat on sobs, until it's chased On sighs, and wiped from off your lips by wind.
I think on your rich breathing, brother, I'll be weaned To do without what blood remained me from my wound.
5th December 1917.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Baby's Note to a Baby, with a pair of Coral Bracelets

Baby's note to a Baby, with a pair of coral bracelets.
Dear little Ann,
I hope you can
 These bracelets wear.
And that you will
Remember still
 Whose gift they are.
They're very plain,
For to be vain
 I don't approve,
Proud babies sure
Few could endure,
 And fewer love.
You're handsome, dear,
They tell me here,
 But when you call
To visit me,
You'll quickly see
 I'm not at all.
Tho' I've thick hair,
No caps I wear,
 (Nurse says 'tis lawful)— My face is brown, And when I frown,
 'T is truly awful.
You'll think I'm bold,
Not six weeks old,
 To send this letter;
You're twice my age,
And I'll engage
 Can write much better.
So, when you've leisure,
'T will give me pleasure.
 Your notes to see;
Some grave advice,
Or precept wise,
 Pray send to me.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Baby to a Baby, with a New Year's Present

Baby to a Baby, with a New-Year's Present.
'T is New-Year's day,
The people say,
 Kind notes they frame,
And presents send,
So I, my friend,
 Will do the same.
I think I must
Write you the first,
 Because you see
My age is four
Whole months and more,
 And yours but three.
You've talents great
For church or state,
 I often hear,
But don't be vain,
Wise men are plain,
 And meek, my dear.
When thought asleep,
I sometimes peep
 My cradle o'er,
And slily turn
My ear and learn
 Some curious lore.
A doctor grave,
Who lives can save,
 I thus espied;
And when Nurse blam'd
And loudly sham'd
 All babes who cried,
He said 't was better
To lay no fetter
 Upon the lungs,
To expand the chest
Was surely best
 By use of tongues.
Such precepts rare,
I lock'd with care
 Close in my breast,
Don't you think, John,
To act upon
 His plan is best?
If chains that bind
The free-born mind
 Make men rebel,
Can strict restraint
On all complaint
 Please babies well?
With whisker'd chin
When guests come in,  To me they fly,
And grasp me tight.
Until with fright,
 I'm forc'd to cry.
'Tis surely rude
Thus to intrude
 On ladies fair,
Do let me know
To treat you so,
 If people dare.
To send with this
A New-Year's kiss
 To Margaret fair,
Who's three years old,.
And wise I'm told,
 I hardly dare.
But mind, my friend,
I do not send,
 A kiss to you,
To grant a beau
Such gifts, you know
 Would never do.
Now John, farewell,
For truth to tell,
 To eat and doze,
So takes my time
I scarce can rhyme
 Or write in prose.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Birth Day Verses

Birth-Day Verses.
TO A LITTLE GIRL WHO HAD LOST HER MOTHER.
We love the flower that decks the spray,
And brightens through the summer-day,
We praise the fruit, whose ripening hue
Of gold or crimson meets our view;
But with delight far more refin'd,
Behold the fair, expanding mind,
Whose radiant blossoms charm the eye,
Whose hallow'd fruits can never die.
 An eye there was whose tender beam
Hung o'er thy being's earliest dream,
That once upon this rising morn
Wept tears of joy that thou wert born;
And now, perchance, with watchful zeal,
With such pure love as angels feel,
Regards thee from that realm of day,
Where every tear is wip'd away.
 Oh, choose the path that Mother trod,
Belov'd on earth, and blest of God;
At Pity's call, at Sorrow's sigh,
Pour forth her heaven-taught sympathy,
Her image in its grace restore,
Print on thy brow the smile she wore,
Bear, as she bore, a Saviour's name,—
—What higher wish can Friendship frame?
# Poems upon Several Occasions/74

HASTE to Clarinda, and reveal Whatever Pains poor Lovers feel; When that is done, then tell the Fair That I endure much more for her. Who'd truly know Love's Pow'r or Smart, Must view her Eyes, and read my Heart.