OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poetical Fragments from Ethel Churchill Volume I/Parting

CHAPTER III.
ANTICIPATION.
We do not know how much we love,
 Until we come to leave;
An aged tree, a common flower,
 Are things o'er which we grieve.
There is a pleasure in the pain
That brings us back the past again.
We linger while we turn away,
 We cling while we depart;
And memories, unmarked till then,
 Come crowding on the heart.
Let what will lure our onward way,
Farewell's a bitter word to say.
Blanchard’s title is:
PARTING
Musical Settings:
Song, “We do not know how much we love,” music by G. Loder in The New York Glee Book, 1851 Ballad, music by Owen Hope, 1865
It appeared in the New York Mirror (24th February 1838), as Farewell
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 47/October 1895/Obituary Notes

Layout 4
The death of Prof. Valentine Ball, of Dublin, is a serious loss to the scientific circles of that town. He contributed much to the literature on precious stones, and published several books of travels. Although of fine physique, he died at the age of only fifty-one.
The death is announced of Prof. Baillon, Director of the Botanical Laboratory of the faculty of medicine at the Sorbonne. He was one of the most distinguished of the French botanists and a very prolific writer. He was born at Calais, November 30, 1827.
Dr. Friedrich Tietjen died on June 21, 1895. He was Professor of Astronomy at Berlin University and editor of the Astronomischen Jahrbuch. He was born in 1834. His most important labors lie in the region of astronomical computation.
Dr. Friedrich Wilhelm Gustav Spörer, chief observer in the Astrophysical Observatory at Potsdam, died on the 7th of July of heart disease. He was born in Berlin, October 23, 1822. He took his degree from the Berlin University in 1843. He did a large amount of valuable astronomical work, being especially interested in sun spots, his work on these making his name known to the scientific world.
# Poems of Passion/Little Queen

Do you remember the name I wore—  The old pet-name of Little Queen— In the dear, dead days that are no more,  The happiest days of our lives, I ween? For we loved with that passionate love of youth  That blesses but once with its perfect bliss— A love that, in spite of its trust and truth,  Seems never to thrive in a world like this.
I lived for you, and you lived for me;  All was centered in "Little Queen;" And never a thought in our hearts had we  That strife or trouble could come between. What utter sinking of self it was!  How little we cared for the world of men! For love's fair kingdom and love's sweet laws  Were all of the world and life to us then.
But a love like ours was a challenge to Fate;  She rang down the curtain and shifted the scene; Yet sometimes now, when the day grows late,  I can hear you calling for Little Queen; For a happy home and a busy life  Can never wholly crowd out our past; In the twilight pauses that come from strife,  You will think of me while life shall last.
And however sweet the voice of fame  May sing to me of a great world's praise, I shall long sometimes for the old pet-name  That you gave to me in the dear, dead days; And nothing the angel band can say,  When I reach the shores of the great Unseen, Can please me so much as on that day  To hear your greeting of "Little Queen."
# Poems of Passion/Love's Coming

She had looked for his coming as warriors come, With the clash of arms and the bugle's call: But he came instead with a stealthy tread, Which she did not hear at all.
She had thought how his armor would blaze in the sun, As he rode like a prince to claim his bride: In the sweet dim light of the falling night She found him at her side.
She had dreamed how the gaze of his strange, bold eye Would wake her heart to a sudden glow: She found in his face the familiar grace Of a friend she used to know.
She had dreamed how his coming would stir her soul, As the ocean is stirred by the wild storm's strife: He brought her the balm of a heavenly calm, And a peace which crowned her life.
# Poems of Passion/If I Should Die

If I should die, how kind you all would grow! In that strange hour I would not have one foe. There are no words too beautiful to say Of one who goes forevermore away Across that ebbing tide which has no flow.
With what new lustre my good deeds would glow! If faults were mine, no one would call them so, Or speak of me in aught but praise that day, If I should die.
Ah, friends! before my listening ear lies low, While I can hear and understand, bestow That gentle treatment and fond love, I pray, The lustre of whose late though radiant way Would gild my grave with mocking light, I know, If I should die.
# Poems of Passion/Impatience

How can I wait until you come to me?  The once fleet mornings linger by the way, Their sunny smiles touched with malicious glee  At my unrest; they seem to pause, and play  Like truant children, while I sigh and say,  How can I wait?
How can I wait? Of old, the rapid hours  Refused to pause or loiter with me long; But now they idly fill their hands with flowers,  And make no haste, but slowly stroll among  The summer blooms, not heeding my one song,  How can I wait?
How can I wait? The nights alone are kind;  They reach forth to a future day, and bring Sweet dreams of you to people all my mind;  And time speeds by on light and airy wing.  I feast upon your face, I no more sing,  How can I wait?
How can I wait? The morning breaks the spell  A pitying night has flung upon my soul. You are not near me, and I know full well  My heart has need of patience and control;  Before we meet, hours, days, and weeks must roll.  How can I wait?
How can I wait? Oh, love, how can I wait  Until the sunlight of your eyes shall shine Upon my world that seems so desolate?  Until your hand-clasp warms my blood like wine;  Until you come again, oh, love of mine,  How can I wait?
# Poems of Passion/Life is Too Short

Life is too short for any vain regretting;  Let dead delight bury its dead, I say, And let us go upon our way forgetting  The joys and sorrows of each yesterday Between the swift sun's rising and its setting We have no time for useless tears or fretting:  Life is too short.
Life is too short for any bitter feeling;  Time is the best avenger if we wait; The years speed by, and on their wings bear healing;  We have no room for anything like hate. This solemn truth the low mounds seem revealing That thick and fast about our feet are stealing:  Life is too short.
Life is too short for aught but high endeavor—  Too short for spite, but long enough for love. And love lives on forever and forever;  It links the worlds that circle on above: 'Tis God's first law, the universe's lever. In His vast realm the radiant souls sigh never  "Life is too short."
# Poems of Passion/I Will be Worthy of It

I may not reach the heights I seek,  My untried strength may fail me, Or, half-way up the mountain peak,  Fierce tempests may assail me. But though that place I never gain, Herein lies comfort for my pain—  I will be worthy of it.
I may not triumph in success,  Despite my earnest labor; I may not grasp results that bless  The efforts of my neighbor; But though my goal I never see, This thought shall always dwell with me—  I will be worthy of it.
The golden glory of Love's light  May never fall on my way; My path may always lead through night,  Like some deserted by-way; But though life's dearest joy I miss There lies a nameless strength in this—  I will be worthy of it.
# Poems of Passion/Individuality

O yes, I love you, and with all my heart;  Just as a weaker woman loves her own, Better than I love my beloved art,  Which, till you came, reigned royally, alone, My king, my master. Since I saw your face I have dethroned it, and you hold that place.
I am as weak as other women are:  Your frown can make the whole world like a tomb; Your smile shines brighter than the sun, by far.  Sometimes I think there is not space or room In all the earth for such a love as mine, And it soars up to breathe in realms divine.
I know that your desertion or neglect  Could break my heart, as women's hearts do break. If my wan days had nothing to expect  From your love's splendor, all joy would forsake The chambers of my soul. Yes, this is true. And yet, and yet—one thing I keep from you.
There is a subtle part of me, which went  Into my long pursued and worshipped art; Though your great love fills me with such content  No other love finds room now, in my heart. Yet that rare essence was my art's alone. Thank God, you cannot grasp it; 'tis mine own.
Thank God, I say, for while I love you so,  With that vast love, as passionate as tender, I feel an exultation as I know  I have not made you a complete surrender. Here is my body; bruise it, if you will, And break my heart; I have that something still.
You cannot grasp it. Seize the breath of morn  Or bind the perfume of the rose, as well. God put it in my soul when I was born;  It is not mine to give away, or sell, Or offer up on any altar shrine. It was my art's; and when not art's, 'tis mine,
For love's sake I can put the art away,  Or anything which stands 'twixt me and you. But that strange essence God bestowed, I say,  To permeate the work He gave to do: And it cannot be drained, dissolved, or sent Through any channel save the one He meant.
# Poems of Passion/Isaura

Dost thou not tire, Isaura, of this play?  "What play?" Why, this old play of winning hearts! Nay, now, lift not thine eyes in that feigned way:  'Tis all in vain—I know thee and thine arts.
Let us be frank, Isaura. I have made  A study of thee; and while I admire The practised skill with which thy plans are laid,  I can but wonder if thou dost not tire.
Why, I tire even of Hamlet and Macbeth!  When overlong the season runs, I find Those master-scenes of passion, blood, and death,  After a time do pall upon my mind.
Dost thou not tire of lifting up thine eyes  To read the story thou hast read so oft— Of ardent glances and deep quivering sighs,  Of haughty faces suddenly grown soft?
Is it not stale, oh, very stale, to thee,  The scene that follows? Hearts are much the same; The loves of men but vary in degree—  They find no new expressions for the flame.
Thou must know all they utter ere they speak,  As I know Hamlet's part, whoever plays. Oh, does it not seem sometimes poor and weak?  I think thou must grow weary of their ways.
I pity thee, Isaura! I would be  The humblest maiden with her dream untold Rather than live a Queen of Hearts, like thee,  And find life's rarest treasures stale and old.
I pity thee; for now, let come what may,  Fame, glory, riches, yet life will lack all. Wherewith can salt be salted? And what way  Can life be seasoned after love doth pall?
# Poems of Passion/Let Me Lean Hard

Let me lean hard upon the Eternal Breast: In all earth's devious ways I sought for rest And found it not. I will be strong, said I, And lean upon myself. I will not cry And importune all heaven with my complaint. But now my strength fails, and I fall, I faint:  Let me lean hard.
Let me lean hard upon the unfailing Arm. I said I will walk on, I fear no harm, The spark divine within my soul will show The upward pathway where my feet should go. But now the heights to which I most aspire Are lost in clouds. I stumble and I tire:  Let me lean hard.
Let me lean harder yet. That swerveless force Which speeds the solar systems on their course Can take, unfelt, the burden of my woe, Which bears me to the dust and hurts me so. I thought my strength enough for any fate, But lo! I sink beneath my sorrow's weight:  Let me lean hard.
# Poems of Passion/Love's Language

How does Love speak? In the faint flush upon the tell-tale cheek, And in the pallor that succeeds it; by The quivering lid of an averted eye— The smile that proves the patent to a sigh—  Thus doth Love speak.
 How does Love speak? By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache, While new emotions, like strange barges, make Along vein-channels their disturbing course; Still as the dawn, and with the dawn's swift force—  Thus doth Love speak.
 How does Love speak? In the avoidance of that which we seek— The sudden silence and reserve when near— The eye that glistens with an unshed tear— The joy that seems the counterpart of fear, As the alarmed heart leaps in the breast, And knows and names and greets its godlike guest—  Thus doth Love speak.
 How does Love speak? In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek— The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender And unnamed light that floods the world with splendor; In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace In all fair things to one beloved face; In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble; In looks and lips that can no more dissemble—  Thus doth Love speak.
 How does Love speak? In the wild words that uttered seem so weak They shrink ashamed to silence; in the fire Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing high and higher Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm; In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm, Impassioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins Between the shores of keen delight and pains; In the embrace where madness melts in bliss, And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss—  Thus doth Love speak.
# Presidential Radio Address - 19 April 2003

Weekly radio address delivered on April 19, 2003.
THE PRESIDENT: Good morning. This weekend, families across America will come together to celebrate Easter, and continue the observance of Passover. This holy season reminds us of the value of freedom, and the power of a love stronger than death.
This year, Easter and Passover have special meaning for the families of our men and women in uniform who feel so intensely the absence of their loved ones during these days. More than 250,000 American troops are serving in Operation Iraqi Freedom to protect our security and to free an oppressed people. Their families await their safe return, and our grateful nation remembers them in prayer.
Our whole nation has also shared in the happiness of learning that seven American prisoners of war were rescued in Northern Iraq earlier this week and are now safe. Thanks to the courage of our Marines and the help of Iraqis, their families have even more reason to celebrate this weekend.
After hearing the good news, the parents of rescued helicopter pilot Ronald Young, Jr. of Georgia, thanked people from across America and as far away as Australia and Japan for their cards and flowers and prayers. Kaye Young, Ronald's mother, said, "You can't believe the blessings that have come out of this. Even as sad as we were, as upset as we were to think that he was being held, there have been so many blessings." Mrs. Young continued, "All over this country, people cared so much about us and about our son."
As a nation, we continue to pray for all who serve in our military and those who remain in harm's way. We also pray for those who have lost people they love in this war. I have met with some of these grieving families, and I have seen their sorrow and their strength.
Corporal Henry Brown, a 22-year-old soldier from Natchez, Mississippi, was lost in battle earlier this month. After the news arrived, his best friend, Frank Woods, Jr., said this about Henry: "He believed God was working through him and he was part of the plan. I guess part of the plan now is God calling his soldier home."
America mourns those who have been called home, and we pray that their families will find God's comfort and God's grace. His purposes are not always clear to us, yet this season brings a promise: that good can come out of evil, that hope can arise from despair, and that all our grief will someday turn to joy, a joy that can never be taken away.
Laura and I wish you all a happy Easter and a blessed Passover. Thank you for listening.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/A War Song

A WAR SONG
TO ENGLISHMEN.
PREPARE, prepare the iron helm of war,
Bring forth the lots, cast in the spacious orb;
The Angel of Fate turns them with mighty hands,
And casts them out upon the darken'd earth!
 Prepare, prepare.
Prepare your hearts for Death's cold hand! prepare
Your souls for flight, your bodies for the earth!
Prepare your arms for glorious victory!
Prepare your eyes to meet a holy God!
 Prepare, prepare.
Whose fatal scroll is that? Methinks 'tis mine!
Why sinks my heart, why faltereth my tongue?
Had I three lives, I 'd die in such a cause,
And rise, with ghosts, over the well-fought field.
 Prepare, prepare.
The arrows of Almighty God are drawn!
Angels of Death stand in the lowering heavens!
Thousands of souls must seek the realms of light, And walk together on the clouds of heaven!  Prepare, prepare.
Soldiers, prepare! Our cause is Heaven's cause; Soldiers, prepare! Be worthy of our cause: Prepare to meet our fathers in the sky: Prepare, O troops that are to fall to-day!  Prepare, prepare.
Alfred shall smile, and make his harp rejoice; The Norman William and the learned Clerk, And Lion-Heart, and black-brow'd Edward with His loyal queen shall rise, and welcome us!  Prepare, prepare.
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/Blind-man's Buff

See also Blind-man's Buff
BLIND-MAN'S BUFF.
WHEN silver snow decks Susan's clothes, And jewel hangs at th' shepherd's nose, The blushing bank is all my care, With hearth so red, and walls so fair. "Heap the sea-coal, come, heap it higher, "The oaken log lay on the fire:" The well-wash'd stools, a circling row, With lad and lass, how fair the show! The merry can of nut-brown ale, The laughing jest, the love-sick tale, Till, tired of chat, the game begins, The lasses prick the lads with pins; Roger from Dolly twitch'd the stool, She falling, kiss'd the ground, poor fool! She blush'd so red, with side-long glance At hobnail Dick, who grieved the chance. But now for Blind-man's Buff they call; Of each incumbrance clear the hall— Jenny her silken kerchief folds, And blear-eyed Will the black lot holds, Now laughing, stops, with "Silence, hush!"
And Peggy Pout gives Sam a push.— The Blind-man's arms, extended wide, Sam slips between:—"O woe betide Thee, clumsy Will!—"but tittering Kate Is penn'd up in the corner strait! And now Will's eyes beheld the play, He thought his face was t'other way. "Now, Kitty, now; what chance hast thou, "Roger so near thee trips, I vow!" She catches him—then Roger ties His own head up—but not his eyes; For thro' the slender cloth he sees, And runs at Sam, who slips with ease His clumsy hold; and, dodging round, Sukey is tumbled on the ground!— "See what it is to play unfair! "Where cheating is, there's mischief there" But Roger still pursues the chace,— "He sees! he sees!" cries softly Grace; "O Roger, thou, unskill'd in art "Must, surer bound, go thro' thy part!" Now Kitty, pert, repeats the rhymes And Roger turns him round three times, Then pauses ere he starts; but Dick Was mischief-bent upon a trick; Down on his hands and knees he lay
Directly in the Blind-man's way, Then cries out, "Hem!" Hodge heard, and ran With hood-wink'd chance—sure of his man; But down he came.—Alas, how frail Our best of hopes, how soon they fail! With crimson drops he stains the ground, Confusion startles all around! Poor piteous Dick supports his head, And fain would cure the hurt he made; But Kitty hasted with a key And down his back they straight convey The cold relief—the blood is stay'd And Hodge again holds up his head. Such are the fortunes of the game, And those who play should stop the same By wholesome laws, such as—all those Who on the blinded man impose, Stand in his stead; as long agone When men were first a nation grown, Lawless they lived, till wantonness And liberty began t' increase, And one man lay in another's way; Then laws were made to keep fair play.
# Poetical pieces on various subjects

POETICAL PIECES
ON
Various Subjects.
BY
JOHN MAXWELL.
CONTAINING
1. The Miser, in miniature
2. Introduction to, and a Paraphrase on Proverbs
VII.
4. Reflections on the death of a Profligate.
5. Adulphus' Dream
6. A Simile.
STIRLING:
PRINTED AND SOLD BY C. RANDALL.
* The Miser, in miniature
* Introduction to, and a Paraphrase on Proverbs
* Reflections on the death of a Profligate
* Adulphus' Dream
* A Simile
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
# Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783/An Imitation of Spenser

AN IMITATION OF SPENSER.
GOLDEN Apollo, that thro' heaven wide Scatter'st the rays of light, and truth his beams, In lucent words my darkling verses dight And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams, That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams: All while the jocund hours in thy train Scatter their fancies at thy poet's feet; And when thou yield'st to night thy wide domain, Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain.
For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse, Sound without sense; yet in his rude affray, (For Ignorance is Folly's leasing nurse, And love of Folly needs none other's curse;) Midas the praise hath gain'd of lengthen'd ears, For which himself might deem him ne'er the worse To sit in council with his modern peers And judge of tinkling rhymes and elegances terse.
​And thou, Mercurius, that with winged bow Dost mount aloft into the yielding sky, And thro' Heaven's halls thy airy flight dost throw, Entering with holy feet to where on high Jove weighs the counsel of futurity; Then, laden with eternal fate, dost go Down, like a falling star, from autumn sky, And o'er the surface of the silent deep dost fly:
If thou arrivest at the sandy shore Where nought but envious hissing adders dwell, Thy golden rod, thrown on the dusty floor, Can charm to harmony with potent spell; Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispel Envy and Hate, that thirst for human gore; And cause in sweet society to dwell Vile savage minds that lurk in lonely cell.
O Mercury, assist my labouring sense That round the circle of the world would fly, As the wing'd eagle scorns the towery fence Of Alpine hills round his high aëry, And searches thro' the corners of the sky, ​Sports in the clouds to hear the thunder's sound And see the winged lightnings as they fly; Then, bosom'd in an amber cloud, around Plumes his wide wings, and seeks Sol's palace high.
And thou, O warrior Maid invincible, Arm'd with the terrors of Almighty Jove. Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible, Lovest thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove, In solemn gloom of branches interwove? Or bear'st thy Ægis o'er the burning field, Where, like the sea, the waves of battle move? Or have thy soft piteous eyes beheld The weary wanderer thro' the desert rove? Or does th' afflicted man thy heavenly bosom move?