OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Experience/Most blest is he

Most blest is he who in the morning time Sets forth upon his journey with no staff Shaped by another for his use. Who sees The imminent necessity for toil, And with each morning wakens to the thought Of tasks that wait his doing. Never yet Has unearned leisure and the gift of gold Bestowed such benefits upon the young As need and loneliness; and when life adds The burden of a duty, difficult, And hard to carry, then rejoice, O soul! And know thyself one chosen for high things. Behind thee walk the Helpers. Yet lead on! They only help the lifters, and they give But unto those who also freely give. Not till thy will, thy courage, and thy strength Have done their utmost, and thy love has flowed In pity and compassion, out to all (The worthless, the ungrateful, and the weak, As well as to the worthy and the strong) Canst thou receive invisible support. Do first thy part, and all of it, before Asking the helpers to do aught for thee. For this alone the Universe exists, That man may find himself is Destiny.
# Poems of Experience/Nirvana

A drop of water risen from the ocean Forgot its cause, and spake with deep emotion Unto a passing breeze. ‘How desolate And all forlorn is my unhappy fate. I know not whence I came, or where I go. Scorched by the sun, or chilled by winds that blow, I dwell in space a little time, then pass Out into the night and nothingness - alas!’
‘Nay,’ quoth the breeze, ‘my friend, that cannot be. Thou dost reflect the Universe to me. Look at thine own true self, and there behold A world of light, all scintillant with gold.’ Just there the drop sank back into the wave From whence it came. Nay, that was not its grave!
It lived, it moved, it was a joyous part Of that strong palpitating ocean heart; Its little dream of loneliness was done; It woke to find, Self, and Cause, were one. So shalt thou wake, sad mortal, when thy course Has run its karmic round, and reached the Source, And even now thou dost reflect the whole Of God’s great glory in thy shining soul.
# Poems of Experience/Only be still

‘Only be still, and in the silence grow,’ If thou art seeking what the gods bestow.  This is the simple, safe, and certain way  That leads to knowledge for which all men pray Of higher laws to govern things below.
But in our restless discontent we go  With noisy importuning day on day -  Drowning the inner voice that strives to say ‘Only be still, and in the silence grow.’
We doubt, we cavil, and we talk of woe - We delve in books, and waste our forces so;  We cling to creeds that were not meant to stay,  And close our ears to Truth’s immortal lay. Oh wouldst thou see, and understand, and know? ‘Only be still, and in the silence grow.’
# Poems of Experience/Pardoned Out

I’m pardoned out. Again the stars  Shine on me with their myriad eyes. So long I’ve peered ’twixt iron bars,  I’m awed by this expanse of skies. The world is wider than I thought,  And yet ’tis not so wide, I know, But into its remotest spot  My tale of shame can go.
I’m pardoned out. Old Father Time  Who seemed to halt in horror, when I stained my manhood by a crime,  With steady step moves on again, And through the black appalling night,  That walled me in a gloom accurst, The wonder of the morning light  In sudden glory burst.
I’m pardoned out. I shall be known  No more by number, but by name. And yet each whispering wind has blown  Abroad the story of my shame. I dread to see men shrink away  With startled looks of scorn or fear, When in life’s crowded marts some day,  That name falls on their ear.
I’m pardoned out, ah God! to roam  Like some whipped dog among my kind. I have no friends, I have no home,  Save these bleak walls I leave behind. How can I face the world of men,  My comrades in the days of yore? Oh! hide me in my cell again,  And, warden, lock the door.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Dree Woaks

THE DREE WOAKS.
By the brow o’ thik hangèn I spent all my youth,  In the house that did peep out between The dree woaks, that in winter avworded their lewth,  An’ in zummer their sheäde to the green; An’ there, as in zummer we plaÿ’d at our geämes,  We ēach own’d a tree,  Vor we wer but dree, An’ zoo the dree woaks wer a-call’d by our neämes.
​An’ two did grow scraggy out over the road,  An’ they wer call’d Jimmy’s an’ mine; An’ tother wer Jeännet’s, much kindlier grow’d,  Wi’ a knotless an’ white ribbèd rine. An’ there, o’ fine nights avore gwäin in to rest,  We did dance, vull o’ life,  To the sound o’ the fife, Or plaÿ at some geäme that poor Jeännet lik’d best.
Zoo happy wer we by the woaks o’ the green,  Till we lost sister Jeännet, our pride; Vor when she wer come to her last blushèn teen,  She suddenly zicken’d an’ died. An’ avore the green leaves in the fall wer gone by,  The lightnèn struck dead  Her woaken tree’s head, An’ left en a-stripp’d to the wintery sky.
But woone ov his eäcorns, a-zet in the Fall,  Come up the Spring after, below The trees at her head-stwone ’ithin the church-wall,  An’ mother, to see how did grow, Shed a tear; an’ when father an’ she wer bwoth dead,  There they wer laid deep,  Wi’ their Jeännet, to sleep, Wi’ her at his zide, an’ her tree at her head.
An’ vo’k do still call the wold house the dree woaks,  Vor thik is a-reckon’d that’s down, As mother, a-neämèn her childern to vo’ks,  Meäde dree when but two wer a-voun’; An’ zaid that hereafter she knew she should zee  Why God, that’s above,  Vound fit in his love To strike wi’ his han’ the poor maïd an’ her tree.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Evenèn Star o' Zummer

THE EVENÈN STAR O’ ZUMMER.
When vu’st along theäse road vrom mill, I zeed ye hwome all up the hill, The poplar tree, so straïght an’ tall, Did rustle by the watervall; An’ in the leäze the cows war all  A-lyèn down to teäke their rest.  An’ slowly zunk towárd the west  The evenèn star o’ zummer.
​In parrock there the haÿ did lie In weäle below the elems, dry; An’ up in hwome-groun’ Jim, that know’d We all should come along thik road, D a-tied the grass in knots that drow’d  Poor Poll, a-watchèn in the West  Woone brighter star than all the rest,—  The evenèn star o’ zummer.
The stars that still do zet an’ rise, Did sheen in our forefather’s eyes; They glitter’d to the vu’st men’s zight, The last will have em in their night; But who can vind em half so bright  As I thought thik peäle star above  My smilèn Jeäne, my zweet vu’st love,  The evenèn star o’ zummer.
How sweet’s the mornèn fresh an’ new, Wi’ sparklèn brooks an’ glitt’rèn dew; How sweet’s the noon wi’ sheädes a-drow’d Upon the groun’ but leätely mow’d, An’ bloomèn flowers all abrode;  But sweeter still, as I do clim’,  Theäse woody hill in evenèn dim  ’S the evenèn star o’ zummer.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Child's Greäve

THE CHILD’S GREÄVE.
Avore the time when zuns went down On zummer’s green a-turn’d to brown, When sheädes o’ swaÿèn wheat-eärs vell Upon the scarlet pimpernel; The while you still mid goo, an’ vind  ’Ithin the geärden’s mossy wall,  Sweet blossoms, low or risèn tall, To meäke a tutty to your mind, In churchyard heav’d, wi’ grassy breast, The greäve-mound ov a beäby’s rest.
​An’ when a high day broke, to call A throng ’ithin the churchyard wall, The mother brought, wi’ thoughtvul mind, The feäirest buds her eyes could vind, To trim the little greäve, an’ show  To other souls her love an’ loss,  An’ meäde a Seävior’s little cross O’ brightest flow’rs that then did blow, A-droppèn tears a-sheenèn bright, Among the dew, in mornèn light.
An’ woone sweet bud her han’ did pleäce Up where did droop the Seävior’s feäce; An’ two she zet a-bloomèn bright, Where reach’d His hands o’ left an’ right; Two mwore feäir blossoms, crimson dyed,  Did mark the pleäces ov his veet,  An’ woone did lie, a-smellèn sweet, Up where the spear did wound the zide Ov Him that is the life ov all Greäve sleepers, whether big or small.
The mother that in faïth could zee The Seävior on the high cross tree Mid be a-vound a-grievèn sore, But not to grieve vor evermwore, Vor He shall show her faïthvul mind,  His chaïce is all that she should choose,  An’ love that here do grieve to lose, Shall be, above, a jaÿ to vind, Wi’ Him that evermwore shall keep The souls that He do lay asleep.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Common a-took in

THE COMMON A-TOOK IN.
Oh! no, Poll, no! Since they’ve a-took The common in, our lew wold nook Don’t seem a-bit as used to look  When we had runnèn room; Girt banks do shut up ev’ry drong, An’ stratch wi’ thorny backs along Where we did use to run among  The vuzzen an’ the broom.
​Ees; while the ragged colts did crop The nibbled grass, I used to hop The emmet-buts, vrom top to top,  So proud o’ my spry jumps: Wi’ thee behind or at my zide, A-skippèn on so light an’ wide ’S thy little frock would let thee stride,  Among the vuzzy humps.
Ah while the lark up over head Did twitter, I did search the red Thick bunch o’ broom, or yollow bed  O’ vuzzen vor a nest; An’ thou di’st hunt about, to meet Wi’ strawberries so red an’ sweet, Or clogs or shoes off hosses veet,  Or wild thyme vor thy breast;
Or when the cows did run about A-stung, in zummer, by the stout, Or when they plaÿ’d, or when they foüght,  Di’st stand a-lookèn on: An’ where white geese, wi’ long red bills, Did veed among the emmet-hills, There we did goo to vind their quills  Alongzide o’ the pon’.
What fun there wer among us, when The haÿward come, wi’ all his men, To drève the common, an’ to pen  Strange cattle in the pound; The cows did bleäre, the men did shout An’ toss their eärms an’ sticks about, An’ vo’ks, to own their stock, come out  Vrom all the housen round.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Church an' Happy Zunday

THE CHURCH AN’ HAPPY ZUNDAY.
Ah! ev’ry day mid bring a while O’ eäse vrom all woone’s ceäre an’ tweil, The welcome evenèn, when ’tis sweet Vor tired friends wi’ weary veet, But litsome hearts o’ love, to meet; An’ yet while weekly times do roll, The best vor body an’ vor soul  ’S the church an’ happy Zunday.
Vor then our loosen’d souls do rise Wi’ holy thoughts beyond the skies, As we do think o’ Him that shed His blood vor us, an’ still do spread His love upon the live an’ dead; An’ how He gi’ed a time an’ pleäce To gather us, an’ gi’e us greäce,—  The church an’ happy Zunday.
There, under leänen mossy stwones, Do lie, vorgot, our fathers’ bwones, That trod this groun’ vor years agoo, When things that now be wold wer new; An’ comely maïdens, mild an’ true, That meäde their sweet-hearts happy brides, An’ come to kneel down at their zides  At church o’ happy Zundays.
’Tis good to zee woone’s naïghbours come Out drough the churchyard, vlockèn hwome, As woone do nod, an’ woone do smile, An’ woone do toss another’s chile; An’ zome be sheäken han’s, the while Poll’s uncle, chuckèn her below Her chin, do tell her she do grow,  At church o’ happy Zundays.
​Zoo while our blood do run in vaïns O’ livèn souls in theäsum plaïns, Mid happy housen smoky round The church an’ holy bit o’ ground; An’ while their weddèn bells do sound, Oh! mid em have the meäns o’ greäce, The holy day an’ holy pleäce,  The church an’ happy Zunday.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Clote

THE CLOTE. (Water-lily.)
O zummer clote! when the brook’s a-glidèn  So slow an’ smooth down his zedgy bed, Upon thy broad leaves so seäfe a-ridèn  The water’s top wi’ thy yollow head,  By alder’s heads, O,  An’ bulrush beds, O. Thou then dost float, goolden zummer clote!
​The grey-bough’d withy’s a-leänèn lowly  Above the water thy leaves do hide; The bendèn bulrush, a-swaÿèn slowly,  Do skirt in zummer thy river’s zide;  An’ perch in shoals, O,  Do vill the holes, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!
Oh! when thy brook-drinkèn flow’r ’s a-blowèn,  The burnèn zummer’s a-zettèn in; The time o’ greenness, the time o’ mowèn,  When in the haÿ-vield, wi’ zunburnt skin,  The vo’k do drink, O,  Upon the brink, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!
Wi’ eärms a-spreadèn, an’ cheäks a-blowèn,  How proud wer I when I vu’st could zwim Athirt the pleäce where thou bist a-growèn,  Wi’ thy long more vrom the bottom dim;  While cows, knee-high, O,  In brook, wer nigh, O, Where thou dost float, goolden zummer clote!
Ov all the brooks drough the meäds a-windèn,  Ov all the meäds by a river’s brim, There’s nwone so feäir o’ my own heart’s vindèn,  As where the maïdens do zee thee swim,  An’ stan’ to teäke, O,  Wi’ long-stemm’d reäke, O, Thy flow’r afloat, goolden zummer clote!
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Child an' the Mowers

THE CHILD AN’ THE MOWERS.
O, aye! they had woone child bezide,  An’ a finer your eyes never met, ’Twer a dear little fellow that died  In the zummer that come wi’ such het; By the mowers, too thoughtless in fun,  He war then a-zent off vrom our eyes, Vrom the light ov the dew-dryèn zun,—  Aye! vrom days under blue-hollow’d skies.
He went out to the mowers in meäd,  When the zun wer a-rose to his height, An’ the men wer a-swingèn the sneäd,  Wi’ their eärms in white sleeves, left an’ right; An’ out there, as they rested at noon,  O! they drench’d en vrom eäle-horns too deep, Till his thoughts wer a-drown’d in a swoon;  Aye! his life wer a-smother’d in sleep.
​Then they laid en there-right on the ground,  On a grass-heap, a-zweltrèn wi’ het, Wi’ his heäir all a-wetted around  His young feäce, wi’ the big drops o’ zweat; In his little left palm he’d a-zet,  Wi’ his right hand, his vore-vinger’s tip, As for zome’hat he woulden vorget,—  Aye! zome thought that he woulden let slip.
Then they took en in hwome to his bed,  An’ he rose vrom his pillow noo mwore, Vor the curls on his sleek little head  To be blown by the wind out o’ door. Vor he died while the häy russled grey  On the staddle so leätely begun: Lik’ the mown-grass a-dried by the day,—  Aye! the zwath-flow’r’s a-killed by the zun.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Do'set Militia

THE DO’SET MILITIA.
Hurrah! my lads, vor Do’set men! A-muster’d here in red ageän; All welcome to your ranks, a-spread Up zide to zide, to stand, or wheel, An’ welcome to your files, to head The steady march wi’ tooe to heel; Welcome to marches slow or quick! Welcome to gath’rèns thin or thick; God speed the Colonel on the hill, An’ Mrs Bingham, off o’ drill.
When you’ve a-handled well your lock, An’ flung about your rifle stock Vrom han’ to shoulder, up an’ down; When you’ve a-lwoaded an’ a-vired, Till you do come back into town, Wi’ all your loppèn limbs a-tired, An you be dry an’ burnèn hot, Why here’s your tea an’ coffee pot At Mister Greenèn’s penny till, Wi’ Mrs Bingham off o’ drill.
Last year John Hinley’s mother cried, “Why my bwoy John is quite my pride; ​Vor he’ve a-been so good to-year, An’ han’t a-mell’d wi’ any squabbles, An’ han’t a-drown’d his wits in beer, An’ han’t a-been in any hobbles. I never thought he’d turn out bad, He always wer so good a lad; But now I’m sure he’s better still, Drough Mrs Bingham, off o’ drill.”
Jeäne Hart, that’s Joey Duntley’s chaïce, Do praise en up wi’ her sweet vaïce, Vor he’s so strait’s a hollyhock (Vew hollyhocks be up so tall), An’ he do come so true’s the clock To Mrs Bingham’s coffee-stall; An’ Jeäne do write, an’ brag o’ Joe To teäke the young recruits in tow, An’ try, vor all their good, to bring em, A-come from drill, to Mrs Bingham.
God speed the Colonel, toppèn high, An’ officers wi’ sworded thigh, An’ all the sargeants that do bawl All day enough to split their droats, An’ all the corporals, and all The band a-plaÿèn up their notes, An’ all the men vrom vur an’ near, We’ll gi’e em all a hearty cheer, An’ then another cheerèn still Vor Mrs Bingham, off o’ drill.
* ↑ Poundbury, Dorchester, the drill ground.
* ↑ The colonel’s wife, who opened a room with a coffee-stall, and entertainments for the men off drill.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Drèven o' the Common

THE DRÈVEN O’ THE COMMON.
In the common by our hwome There wer freely-open room, Vor our litty veet to roam By the vuzzen out in bloom. That wi’ prickles kept our lags Vrom the skylark’s nest ov aggs; ​While the peewit wheel’d around Wi’ his cry up over head, Or he sped, though a-limpèn, o’er the ground.
There we heärd the whickr’èn meäre Wi’ her vaïce a-quiv’rèn high; Where the cow did loudly bleäre By the donkey’s vallèn cry. While a-stoopèn man did zwing His bright hook at vuzz or ling Free o’ fear, wi’ wellglov’d hands, O’ the prickly vuzz he vell’d, Then sweet-smell’d as it died in faggot bands.
When the haÿward drove the stock In a herd to zome oone pleäce, Thither vo’k begun to vlock, Each to own his beästes feäce. While the geese, bezide the stream, Zent vrom gapèn bills a scream, An’ the cattle then avound, Without right o’ greäzen there, Went to bleäre braÿ or whicker in the pound.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Echo

THE ECHO.
About the tow’r an’ churchyard wall,  Out nearly overright our door, A tongue ov wind did always call  Whatever we did call avore. The vaïce did mock our neämes, our cheers,  Our merry laughs, our hands’ loud claps, An’ mother’s call “Come, come, my dears”  —my dears;  Or “Do as I do bid, bad chaps”  —bad chaps.
An’ when o’ Zundays on the green,  In frocks an’ cwoats as gaÿ as new, We walk’d wi’ shoes a-meäde to sheen  So black an’ bright’s a vull-ripe slooe ​We then did hear the tongue ov aïr  A-mockèn mother’s vaïce so thin, “Come, now the bell do goo vor praÿ’r”  —vor pray’r; “ ’Tis time to goo to church; come in”  —come in.
The night when little Anne, that died,  Begun to zickèn, back in Maÿ, An’ she, at dusk ov evenèn-tide,  Wer out wi’ others at their plaÿ, Within the churchyard that do keep  Her little bed, the vaïce o’ thin Dark aïr, mock’d mother’s call “To sleep”  —to sleep; “ ’Tis bed time now, my love, come in”  —come in.
An’ when our Jeäne come out so smart  A-married, an’ we help’d her in To Henry’s newly-païnted cart,  The while the wheels begun to spin, An’ her gaÿ nods, vor all she smil’d,  Did sheäke a tear-drop vrom each eye, The vaïce mock’d mother’s call, “Dear child”  —dear child;  “God bless ye evermwore; good bye”  —good bye.
# Poems of Cheer/Romney

Nay, Romney, nay--I will not hear you say  Those words again: "I love you, love you sweet!"  You are profane--blasphemous. I repeat, You are no actor for so grand a play.
You love with all your heart? Well, that may be;  Some cups are fashioned shallow. Should I try  To quench my thirst from one of those, when dry - I who have had a full bowl proffered me -
A new bowl brimming with a draught divine,  One single taste thrilled to the finger-tips?  Think you I even care to bathe my lips With this poor sweetened water you call wine?
And though I spilled the nectar ere 'twas quaffed,  And broke the bowl in wanton folly, yet  I would die of my thirst ere I would wet My burning lips with any meaner draught.
So leave me, Romney. One who has seen a play  Enacted by a star cannot endure  To see it rendered by an amateur. You know not what Love is--now go away!
# Poems of Cheer/The House of Life

All wondering, and eager-eyed, within her portico I made my plea to Hostess Life, one morning long ago.
"Pray show me this great house of thine, nor close a single door; But let me wander where I will, and climb from floor to floor!
For many rooms, and curious things, and treasures great and small Within your spacious mansion lie, and I would see them all."
Then Hostess Life turned silently, her searching gaze on me, And with no word, she reached her hand, and offered up the key.
It opened first the door of Hope, and long I lingered there, Until I spied the room of Dreams, just higher by a stair.
And then a door whereon the one word "Happiness" was writ; But when I tried the little key I could not make it fit.
It turned the lock of Pleasure's room, where first all seemed so bright - But after I had stayed awhile it somehow lost its light.
And wandering down a lonely hall, I came upon a room Marked "Duty," and I entered it--to lose myself in gloom.
Along the shadowy halls I groped my weary way about, And found that from dull Duty's room, a door of Toil led out.
It led out to another door, whereon a crimson stain Made sullenly against the dark these words: "The Room of Pain."
But oh the light, the light, the light, that spilled down from above And upward wound, the stairs of Faith, right to the Tower of Love!
And when I came forth from that place, I tried the little key - And lo! the door of Happiness swung open, wide and free.
# Poems of Cheer/The Ocean of Song

In a land beyond sight or conceiving,  In a land where no blight is, no wrong, No darkness, no graves, and no grieving,  There lies the great ocean of song. And its waves, oh, its waves unbeholden  By any save gods, and their kind, Are not blue, are not green, but are golden,  Like moonlight and sunlight combined.
It was whispered to me that their waters  Were made from the gathered-up tears That were wept by the sons and the daughters  Of long-vanished eras and spheres. Like white sands of heaven the spray is  That falls all the happy day long, And whoever it touches straightway is  Made glad with the spirit of song.
Up, up to the clouds where their hoary  Crowned heads melt away in the skies, The beautiful mountains of glory  Each side of the song-ocean rise. Here day is one splendour of sky-light -  Of God's light with beauty replete. Here night is not night, but is twilight,  Pervading, enfolding, and sweet.
Bright birds from all climes and all regions,  That sing the whole glad summer long, Are dumb, till they flock here in legions  And lave in the ocean of song. It is here that the four winds of heaven,  The winds that do sing and rejoice, It is here they first came and were given  The secret of sound and a voice.
Far down along beautiful beeches,  By night and by glorious day, The throng of the gifted ones reaches,  Their foreheads made white with the spray, And a few of the sons and the daughters  Of this kingdom, cloud-hidden from sight, Go down in the wonderful waters,  And bathe in those billows of light.
And their souls evermore are like fountains,  And liquid and lucent and strong, High over the tops of the mountains  Gush up the sweet billows of song. No drouth-time of waters can dry them.  Whoever has bathed in that sea, All dangers, all deaths, they defy them,  And are gladder than gods are, with glee.
# Poems of Cheer/Slipping Away

Slipping away--slipping away! Out of our brief year slips the May; And Winter lingers, and Summer flies; And Sorrow abideth, and Pleasure dies; And the days are short, and the nights are long; And little is right, and much is wrong.
Slipping away is the Summer time; It has lost its rhythm and lilting rhyme - For the grace goes out of the day so soon, And the tired head aches in the glare of noon, And the way seems long to the hills that lie Under the calm of the western sky.
Slipping away are the friends whose worth Lent a glow to the sad old earth: One by one they slip from our sight; One by one their graves gleam white; Or we count them lost by the crueller death Of a trust betrayed, or a murdered faith.
Slipping away are the hopes that made Bliss out of sorrow, and sun out of shade, Slipping away is our hold on life; And out of the struggle and wearing strife, From joys that diminish, and woes that increase, We are slipping away to the shores of Peace.