OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Sidney Lanier/The Bee

Sidney Lanier composed this poem in 1877 while was living in Tampa, Florida.
What time I paced, at pleasant morn,  A deep and dewy wood, I heard a mellow hunting-horn  Make dim report of Dian’s lustihood Far down a heavenly hollow. Mine ear, though fain, had pain to follow:  ‘Tara!’ it twanged, ‘tara-tara!’ it blew,  Yet wavered oft, and flew Most ficklewise about, or here, or there, A music now from earth and now from air.  But on a sudden, lo!  I marked a blossom shiver to and fro With dainty inward storm; and there within A down-drawn trump of yellow jessamine  A bee  Thrust up its sad-gold body lustily, All in a honey madness hotly bound  On blissful burglary.  A cunning sound In that wing-music held me: down I lay In amber shades of many a golden spray, Where looping low with languid arms the Vine In wreaths of ravishment did overtwine Her kneeling Live-Oak, thousand-fold to plight Herself unto her own true stalwart knight.
As some dim blur of distant music nears The long-desiring sense, and slowly clears  To forms of time and apprehensive tune,  So, as I lay, full soon Interpretation throve: the bee’s fanfare, Through sequent films of discourse vague as air, Passed to plain words, while, fanning faint perfume, The bee o’erhung a rich, unrifled bloom:  “O Earth, fair lordly Blossom, soft a-shine  Upon the star-pranked universal vine,  Hast nought for me?  To thee  Come I, a poet, hereward haply blown,  From out another worldflower lately flown. Wilt ask, ‘What profit e’er a poet brings?’ He beareth starry stuff about his wings To pollen thee and sting thee fertile: nay, If still thou narrow thy contracted way,  —Worldflower, if thou refuse me—  —Worldflower, if thou abuse me,  And hoist thy stamen’s spear-point high  To wound my wing and mar mine eye— Nathless I’ll drive me to thy deepest sweet, Yea, richlier shall that pain the pollen beat From me to thee, for oft these pollens be Fine dust from wars that poets wage for thee. But, O beloved Earthbloom soft a-shine Upon the universal Jessamine,  Prithee, abuse me not,  Prithee, refuse me not, Yield, yield the heartsome honey love to me  Hid in thy nectary!” And as I sank into a dimmer dream The pleading bee’s song-burthen sole did seem:  “Hast ne’er a honey-drop of love for me  In thy huge nectary?”
# Poems of Experience

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.

### Poems of Experience

* The Empty Bowl
* Keep Going
* A Prayer
* The London "Bobby"
* Read at the Benefit of Clara Morris
* Two Ghosts
* Woman
* Battle Hymn of the Women
* Memories
* See?
* The Purpose
* The White Man
* A Moorish Maid
* Lincoln
* I know not
* Interlude
* Resurrection
* The Voices of the City
* If Christ came Questioning
* England, Awake!
* Be not attached
* An Episode
* The Voice of the Voiceless
* Time's Defeat
* The Hymn of the Republic
* The Radiant Christ
* At Bay
* The Birth of Jealousy
* Summer's Farewell
* The Goal
* Christ Crucified
* The Trip to Mars
* Fiction and Fact
* Progress
* How the White Rose Came
* I look to Science
* Appreciation
* The Awakening
* Most blest is he
* Nirvana
* Life
* Two Men
* Only be still
* Pardoned Out
* The Tides
* Progression
* Acquaintance
* Attainment
* The Tower-room
* Father
* The New Hawaiian Girl
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems of Experience/A Moorish Maid

Above her veil a shrouded Moorish maid  Showed melting eyes, as limpid as a lake; A brow untouched by care; a band of jetty hair,  And nothing more. The all-concealing haik Fell to her high arched instep. At her side  An old duenna walked; her withered face  Half covered only, since no lingering grace Bespoke the beauty once her master’s pride.
Above her veil, the Moorish maid beheld  The modern world, in Paris-decked Algiers; Saw happy lad and lass, in love’s contentment pass,  Or in sweet wholesome friendship, free from fears. She saw fair matrons, walking arm-in-arm  With life-long lovers, time-endeared, and then  She saw the ardent look in eyes of men, And thrilled and trembled with a vague alarm.
Above her veil she saw the stuccoed court  That led to dim secluded rooms within. She followed, dutiful, the dame unbeautiful,  Who told her that the Christian world means sin. Some day, full soon, she would go forth a bride -  Of one whose face she never had beheld.  Something within her, wakened, and rebelled; She flung aside her veil, and cried, and cried.
# Poems of Experience/A Prayer

Just as I shape the purport of my thought, Lord of the Universe, shape Thou my lot. Let each ill thought that in my heart may be, Mould circumstance and bring ill luck to me.
Until I weed the garden of my mind From all that is unworthy and unkind, Am I not master of my mind, dear Lord? Then as I think, so must be my reward.
Who sows in weakness, cannot reap in strength, That which we plant, we gather in at length. Great God of Justice, be Thou just to me, And as my thoughts, so let my future be.
# Poems of Experience/Acquaintance

Not we who daily walk the city’s Not those who have been cradled in its heart, Best understand its architectural art Or realise its grandeur. Oft we meet Some stranger who has staid his passing feet And lingered with us for a single hour, And learned more of cathedral, and of tower, Than we who deem our knowledge quite complete.
Not always those we hold most loved and dear, Not always those who dwell with us, know best Our greater selves. Because they stand so near They cannot see the lofty mountain crest, The gleaming sun-kissed height, which fair and clear Stands forth - revealed unto the some-time guest.
# Poems of Experience/At Bay

WIFE
Reach out your arms, and hold me close and fast. Tell me there are no memories of your past That mar this love of ours, so great, so vast.
HUSBAND
Some truths are cheapened when too oft averred. Does not the deed speak louder than the word? (Dear God, that old dream woke again and stirred.)
WIFE
As you love me, you never loved before? Though oft you say it, say it yet once more. My heart is jealous of those days of yore.
HUSBAND
Sweet wife, dear comrade, mother of my child, My life is yours by memory undefiled. (It stirs again, that passion brief and wild.)
WIFE
You never knew a happier hour than this? We two alone, our hearts surcharged with bliss, Nor other kisses, sweet as my own kiss?
HUSBAND
I was a thirsty field, long parched with drouth; You were the warm rain, blowing from the south. (But, ah, the crimson madness of her mouth!)
WIFE
You would not, if you could, go down life’s track For just one little moment and bring back Some vanished rapture that you miss or lack?
HUSBAND
I am content. You are my life, my all. (One burning hour, but one, could I recall; God, how men lie when driven to the wall!)
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems of Experience/Attainment

There is no summit you may not attain,  No purpose which you may not yet achieve,  If you will wait serenely and believe. Each seeming loss is but a step to’rd gain.
Between the mountain-tops lie vale and plain;  Let nothing make you question, doubt, or grieve;  Give only good, and good alone receive; And as you welcome joy, so welcome pain.
That which you most desire awaits your word;  Throw wide the door and bid it enter in. Speak, and the strong vibrations shall be stirred;  Speak, and above earth’s loud, unmeaning din Your silent declarations shall be heard.  All things are possible to God’s own kin.
# Poems of Experience/An Episode

Along the narrow Moorish street  A blue-eyed soldier strode.  (Ah, well-a-day) Veiled from her lashes to her feet  She stepped from her abode,  (Ah, lack-a-day).
Now love may guard a favoured wife  Who leaves the harem door;  (Ah, well-a-day) But hungry hearted is her life  When she is one of four.  (Ah, lack-a-day.)
If black eyes glow with sudden fire  And meet warm eyes of blue -  (Ah, well-a-day). The old, old story of desire  Repeats itself anew.  (Ah, lack-a-day.)
When bugles blow the soldier flies -  Though bitter tears may fall  (Ah, lack-a-day). A Moorish child with blue, blue eyes  Plays in the harem hall.  (Ah, well-a-day.)
# Poems of Experience/Battle Hymn of the Women

They are waking, they are waking,  In the east, and in the west; They are throwing wide their windows to the sun; And they see the dawn is breaking,  And they quiver with unrest, For they know their work is waiting to be done.
They are waking in the city,  They are waking on the farm; They are waking in the boudoir, and the mill; And their hearts are full of pity  As they sound the loud alarm, For the sleepers, who in darkness, slumber, still.
In the guarded harem prison,  Where they smother under veils, And all echoes of the world are walled away; Though the sun has not yet risen,  Yet the ancient darkness pales, And the sleepers, in their slumber, dream of day.
And their dream shall grow in splendour  Till each sleeper wakes, and stirs; Till she breaks from old traditions, and is free; And the world shall rise, and render  Unto woman what is hers, As it welcomes in the race that is to be.
Unto woman, God the Maker  Gave the secret of His plan; It is written out in cipher, on her soul; From the darkness, you must take her,  To the light of day, O man! Would you know the mighty meaning of the scroll.
# Poems of Experience/Appreciation

They prize not most the opulence of June Who from the year’s beginning to its close Dwell, where unfading verdure tireless grows, And where sweet summer’s harp is kept in tune. We must have listened to the winter’s rune, And felt impatient longings for the rose, Ere its full radiance on our vision glows, Or with its fragrant soul, we can commune.
Not they most prize life’s blessings, and delights, Who walk in safe and sunny paths alway. But those, who, groping in the darkness, borrow Pale rays from hope, to lead them through the night, And in the long, long watches wait for day. He knows not joy who has not first known sorrow.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 54

Scans
Layout 4
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)/August 14
## August 14th.

What is the matter with you, Makar Alexievitch? Surely you cannot fear the Lord God as you ought to do? You are not only driving me to distraction but also ruining yourself with this eternal solicitude for your reputation. You are a man of honour, nobility of character, and self-respect, as everyone knows; yet, at any moment, you are ready to die with shame! Surely you should have more consideration for your grey hairs. No, the fear of God has departed from you. Thedora has told you that it is out of my power to render you anymore help. See, therefore, to what a pass you have brought me! Probably you think it is nothing to me that you should behave so badly; probably you do not realise what you have made me suffer. I dare not set foot on the staircase here, for if I do so I am stared at, and pointed at, and spoken about in the most horrible manner. Yes, it is even said of me that I am "united to a drunkard." What a thing to hear! And whenever you are brought home drunk folk say, "They are carrying in that tchinovnik." THAT is not the proper way to make me help you. I swear that I MUST leave this place, and go and get work as a cook or a laundress. It is impossible for me to stay here. Long ago I wrote and asked you to come and see me, yet you have not come. Truly my tears and prayers must mean NOTHING to you, Makar Alexievitch! Whence, too, did you get the money for your debauchery? For the love of God be more careful of yourself, or you will be ruined. How shameful, how abominable of you! So the landlady would not admit you last night, and you spent the night on the doorstep? Oh, I know all about it. Yet if only you could have seen my agony when I heard the news! . . . Come and see me, Makar Alexievitch, and we will once more be happy together. Yes, we will read together, and talk of old times, and Thedora shall tell you of her pilgrimages in former days. For God's sake beloved, do not ruin both yourself and me. I live for you alone; it is for your sake alone that I am still here. Be your better self once more--the self which still can remain firm in the face of misfortune. Poverty is no crime; always remember that. After all, why should we despair? Our present difficulties will pass away, and God will right us. Only be brave. I send you two grivenniks for the purchase of some tobacco or anything else that you need; but ,for the love of heaven, do not spend the money foolishly. Come you and see me soon; come without fail. Perhaps you may be ashamed to meet me, as you were before, but you NEED not feel like that--such shame would be misplaced. Only do bring with you sincere repentance and trust in God, who orders all things for the best.
B. D.
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)/August 13
## August 13th.

MY BELOVED MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--It is true that misfortune is following upon misfortune. I myself scarcely know what to do. Yet, no matter how you may be fairing, you must not look for help from me, for only today I burned my left hand with the iron! At one and the same moment I dropped the iron, made a mistake in my work, and burned myself! So now I can no longer work. Also, these three days past, Thedora has been ailing. My anxiety is becoming positively torturous. Nevertheless, I send you thirty kopecks-- almost the last coins that I have left to me, much as I should have liked to have helped you more when you are so much in need. I feel vexed to the point of weeping. Goodbye, dear friend of mine. You will bring me much comfort if only you will come and see me today.
B. D.
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)

the first novel by Fyodor Dostoevsky, which he wrote over the span of nine months. First published in 1846, it was lauded by the influential critic Belinsky, who (among others) hailed him as the new Gogol. This book was partly inspired by Nikolai Gogol's short story The Overcoat. This novel is written in a form of letters of correspondence between two characters. Like "The Overcoat", the novel gives heart wrenching account of life of low income Russians in mid-nineteenth century.
This edition was translated by C. J. Hogarth.

## April

* April 8th
* April 9th
* April 12th
* April 25th

## May

* May 20th

## June

* June 1st

## Manuscript

* Manuscript, Part I
* Manuscript, Part II

## June

* June 11th
* June 12th
* June 20th
* June 21st
* June 22nd
* June 25th
* June 26th
* June 27th
* June 28th

## July

* July 1st
* July 7th
* July 8th
* July 27th
* July 28th
* July 29th

## August

* August 1st
* August 2nd
* August 3rd
* August 4th
* August 5th
* August 11th
* August 13th
* August 14th
* August 19th
* August 21st

## September

* September 3rd
* September 5th
* September 9th
* September 10th
* September 11th
* September 15th
* September 18th
* September 19th
* September 23rd
* September 27th
* September 28th
* September 29th
* September 30th
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)/April 25
## April 25th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Today I met my cousin Sasha. To see her going to wrack and ruin shocked me terribly. Moreover, it has reached me, through a side wind, that she has been making inquiry for me, and dogging my footsteps, under the pretext that she wishes to pardon me, to forget the past, and to renew our acquaintance. Well, among other things she told me that, whereas you are not a kinsman of mine, that she is my nearest relative; that you have no right whatever to enter into family relations with us; and that it is wrong and shameful for me to be living upon your earnings and charity. Also, she said that I must have forgotten all that she did for me, though thereby she saved both myself and my mother from starvation, and gave us food and drink; that for two and a half years we caused her great loss; and, above all things, that she excused us what we owed her. Even my poor mother she did not spare. Would that she, my dead parent, could know how I am being treated! But God knows all about it. . . . Also, Anna declared that it was solely through my own fault that my fortunes declined after she had bettered them; that she is in no way responsible for what then happened; and that I have but myself to blame for having been either unable or unwilling to defend my honour. Great God! WHO, then, has been at fault? According to Anna, Hospodin [Mr.] Bwikov was only right when he declined to marry a woman who-- But need I say it? It is cruel to hear such lies as hers. What is to become of me I do not know. I tremble and sob and weep. Indeed, even to write this letter has cost me two hours. At least it might have been thought that Anna would have confessed HER share in the past. Yet see what she says! ... For the love of God do not be anxious about me, my friend, my only benefactor. Thedora is over apt to exaggerate matters. I am not REALLY ill. I have merely caught a little cold. I caught it last night while I was walking to Bolkovo, to hear Mass sung for my mother. Ah, mother, my poor mother! Could you but rise from the grave and learn what is being done to your daughter!
B. D.
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)/April 9
## April 9th.

MY DEAREST MAKAR ALEXIEVITCH,--Are not you, my friend and benefactor, just a little ashamed to repine and give way to such despondency? And surely you are not offended with me? Ah! Though often thoughtless in my speech, I never should have imagined that you would take my words as a jest at your expense. Rest assured that NEVER should I make sport of your years or of your character. Only my own levity is at fault; still more, the fact that I am so weary of life.
What will such a feeling not engender? To tell you the truth, I had supposed that YOU were jesting in your letter; wherefore, my heart was feeling heavy at the thought that you could feel so displeased with me. Kind comrade and helper, you will be doing me an injustice if for a single moment you ever suspect that I am lacking in feeling or in gratitude towards you. My heart, believe me, is able to appraise at its true worth all that you have done for me by protecting me from my enemies, and from hatred and persecution. Never shall I cease to pray to God for you; and, should my prayers ever reach Him and be received of Heaven, then assuredly fortune will smile upon you!
Today I am not well. By turns I shiver and flush with heat, and Thedora is greatly disturbed about me. . . . Do not scruple to come and see me, Makar Alexievitch. How can it concern other people what you do? You and I are well enough acquainted with each other, and one's own affairs are one's own affairs. Goodbye, Makar Alexievitch, for I have come to the end of all I had to say, and am feeling too unwell to write more. Again I beg of you not to be angry with me, but to rest assured of my constant respect and attachment.--Your humble, devoted servant,
BARBARA DOBROSELOVA.
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)/August 11
## August 11th.

O Barbara Alexievna, I am undone--we are both of us undone! Both of us are lost beyond recall! Everything is ruined--my reputation, my self-respect, all that I have in the world! And you as much as I. Never shall we retrieve what we have lost. I-- I have brought you to this pass, for I have become an outcast, my darling. Everywhere I am laughed at and despised. Even my landlady has taken to abusing me. Today she overwhelmed me with shrill reproaches, and abased me to the level of a hearth-brush. And last night, when I was in Rataziaev's rooms, one of his friends began to read a scribbled note which I had written to you, and then inadvertently pulled out of my pocket. Oh beloved, what laughter there arose at the recital! How those scoundrels mocked and derided you and myself! I walked up to them and accused Rataziaev of breaking faith. I said that he had played the traitor. But he only replied that I had been the betrayer in the case, by indulging in various amours. "You have kept them very dark though, Mr. Lovelace!" said he-- and now I am known everywhere by this name of "Lovelace." They know EVERYTHING about us, my darling, EVERYTHING--both about you and your affairs and about myself; and when today I was for sending Phaldoni to the bakeshop for something or other, he refused to go, saying that it was not his business. "But you MUST go," said I. "I will not," he replied. "You have not paid my mistress what you owe her, so I am
not bound to run your errands." At such an insult from a raw peasant I lost my temper, and called him a fool; to which he retorted in a similar vein. Upon this I thought that he must be drunk, and told him so; whereupon he replied: "WHAT say you that I am? Suppose you yourself go and sober up, for I know that the other day you went to visit a woman, and that you got drunk with her on two grivenniks." To such a pass have things come! I feel ashamed to be seen alive. I am, as it were, a man proclaimed; I am in a worse plight even than a tramp who has lost his passport. How misfortunes are heaping themselves upon me! I am lost--I am lost for ever!
M. D.
# Poor Folk (Hogarth)/August 19
## August 19th.

MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA, -Yes, I AM ashamed to meet you, my darling--I AM ashamed. At the same time, what is there in all this? Why should we not be cheerful again? Why should I mind the soles of my feet coming through my boots? The sole of one's foot is a mere bagatelle--it will never be anything but just a base, dirty sole. And shoes do not matter, either. The Greek sages used to walk about without them, so why should we coddle ourselves with such things? Yet why, also, should I be insulted and despised because of them? Tell Thedora that she is a rubbishy, tiresome, gabbling old woman, as well as an inexpressibly foolish one. As for my grey hairs, you are quite wrong about them, inasmuch as I am not such an old man as you think. Emelia sends you his greeting. You write that you are in great distress, and have been weeping. Well, I too am in great distress, and have been weeping. Nay, nay. I wish you the best of health and happiness, even as I am well and happy myself, so long as I may remain, my darling,--Your friend,
MAKAR DIEVUSHKIN.
# Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/After Wings

IN COMPANY WITH CHILDREN.
# Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/A Voyage to the Fortunate Isles

NARRATIVE PIECES.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Sky a-cleärèn

THE SKY A-CLEAREN.
The drevèn scud that overcast The zummer sky is all a-past, An’ softer aïr, a-blowèn drough The quiv’rèn boughs, do sheäke the vew Last raïn drops off the leaves lik’ dew;  An’ peäviers, now a-gettèn dry,  Do steam below the zunny sky  That’s now so vast a-cleärèn.
The sheädes that wer a-lost below The stormy cloud, ageän do show Their mockèn sheäpes below the light; An’ house-walls be a-lookèn white, An’ vo’k do stir woonce mwore in zight,  An’ busy birds upon the wing  Do whiver roun’ the boughs an’ zing,  To zee the sky a-clearèn.
Below the hill’s an ash; below
The ash, white elder-flow’rs do blow: ​Below the elder is a bed O’ robinhoods o’ blushèn red; An’ there, wi’ nunches all a-spread,  The haÿ-meäkers, wi’ each a cup  O’ drink, do smile to zee hold up  The raïn, an’ sky a-cleärèn.
’Mid blushèn maïdens, wi’ their zong, Still draw their white-stemm’d reäkes among The long-back’d weäles an’ new-meäde pooks, By brown-stemm’d trees an’ cloty brooks; But have noo call to spweil their looks  By work, that God could never meäke  Their weaker han’s to underteäke,  Though skies mid be a-cleärèn.
’Tis wrong vor women’s han’s to clips The zull an’ reap-hook, speädes an’ whips; An’ men abroad, should leäve, by right, Woone faïthful heart at hwome to light Their bit o’ vier up at night,  An’ hang upon the hedge to dry  Their snow-white linen, when the sky  In winter is a-cleärèn.