OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Pieces People Ask For/The Old Canteen

THE OLD CANTEEN.
Send it up to the garret? Well, no, what's the harm,
If it hangs like a horseshoe to serve as a charm?
Had its day? to be sure. Matches ill with things here!
Shall I sack the old friend just because it is queer?
Thing of beauty 'tis not; but a joy none the less,
As my hot lips remember its old-time caress,
And I think on the solace once gurgling between
My lips from that old battered tin canteen.
It has hung by my side in the long, weary tramp;
Been my friend in the bivouac, barracks, and camp,
In the triumph, the capture, advance, and retreat,
More than light to my path, more than guide to my feet.
Sweeter nectar ne'er flowed, howe'er sparkling and cold,
From out chalice of silver or goblet of gold,
For a Ring or emperor, princess or queen,
Than to me, from the mouth of that old canteen.
It has cheered the desponding on many a night,
Till their laughing eyes gleamed in the camp's fire-light;
Whether guns stood at silence, or boomed at short range,
It was always on duty, though 'twould not be strange
If in somnolent periods, just after "taps,"
Some colonel or captain disturbed at his naps
May have felt a suspicion — that spirits unseen
Had somehow bedeviled that old canteen.
But I think on the time when in lulls of the strife
It has called the far look in dim eyes back to life,
Helped to stanch the quick blood beginning to pour,
Softened broad, gaping wounds that were stiffened and sore,
Moistened thin, livid lips, so despairing of breath,
They could only speak thanks in the quiver of death.
If an angel of mercy ever hovered between
This world and the next, 'twas that old canteen.
Then banish it not, as a profitless thing;
Were it hung in a palace, it well might swing,
To tell in its mute, allegorical way
How the citizen volunteer won the day How he bravely, unflinchingly, grandly won,
And how, when the death-dealing work was done,
'Twas as easy his passion from war to wean
As his mouth from the lips of the old canteen.
By and by, when all hate for the rage with the Bars,
Is forgotten in love for the "Stripes and the Stars,"
When Columbia rules every thing solid and sole
From her one ship-canal to the ice at the pole,
When the Grand-Army men have obeyed the last call,
And the Mayflowers and violets bloom for us all,
Then, away in some garret, the cobwebs may screen
My battered, old, cloth-covered tin canteen.
# Pieces People Ask For/The Seminole's Reply

THE SEMINOLE'S REPLY.
Blaze, with your serried columns!
I will not bend the knee!
The shackles ne'er again shall bind
The arm which now is free.
I've mailed it with the thunder,
When the tempest muttered low;
And where it falls, ye well may dread
The lightning of its blow!
I've scared ye in the city,
I've scalped ye on the plain;
Go, count your chosen, where they fell
Beneath my leaden rain!
I scorn your proffered treaty!
The pale-face I defy!
Revenge is stamped upon my spear,
And blood my battle-cry!
Some strike for hope of booty,
Some to defend their all—
I battle for the joy I have
To see the white man fall:
I love, among the wounded,
To hear his dying moan,
And catch, while chanting at his side,
The music of his groan.
Ye've trailed me through the forest,
Ye've tracked me o'er the stream;
And struggling through the everglade,
Your bristling bayonets gleam:
But I stand as should the warrior,
With his rifle and his spear;
The scalp of vengeance still is red,
And warns ye, "Come not here!"
I loathe ye in my bosom,
I scorn ye with mine eye;
And I'll taunt ye with my latest breath,
And fight ye till I die!
I ne'er will ask ye quarter,
And I ne'er will be your slave;
But I'll swim the sea of slaughter,
Till I sink beneath its wave.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Presaging

​THE BOOK OF PICTURES
​PRESAGING
I am like a flag unfurled in space, I scent the oncoming winds and must bend with them, While the things beneath are not yet stirring, While doors close gently and there is silence in the chimneys And the windows do not yet tremble and the dust is still heavy— Then I feel the storm and am vibrant like the sea And expand and withdraw into myself And thrust myself forth and am alone in the great storm.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Remembrance

​REMEMBRANCE
Expectant and waiting you muse On the great rare thing which alone To enhance your life you would choose: The awakening of the stone, The deeps where yourself you would lose.
In the dusk of the shelves, embossed Shine the volumes in gold and browns, And you think of countries once crossed, Of pictures, of shimmering gowns Of the women that you have lost.
And it comes to you then at last— And you rise for you are aware Of a year in the far off past With its wonder and fear and prayer.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Book of Poverty and Death

This page includes translations of three short sections from an extended sequence, beginning in German with the lines: Ihr Mund ist wie der Mund an einer Büste, / Du aber bist der tiefste Mittellose, / and Mach mich zum Wächter deiner Weiten,
​ The Book of Poverty and Death
Her mouth is like the mouth of a fine bust That cannot utter sound, nor breathe, nor kiss, But that had once from Life received all this Which shaped its subtle curves, and ever must From fullness of past knowledge dwell alone, A thing apart, a parable in stone.
​Alone Thou wanderest through space, Profound One with the hidden face; Thou art Poverty's great rose, The eternal metamorphose Of gold into the light of sun.
Thou art the mystic homeless One; Into the world Thou never came, Too mighty Thou, too great to name; Voice of the storm, Song that the wild wind sings, Thou Harp that shatters those who play Thy strings!
​ A watcher of Thy spaces make me, Make me a listener at Thy stone, Give to me vision and then wake me Upon Thy oceans all alone. Thy rivers' courses let me follow Where they leap the crags in their flight And where at dusk in caverns hollow They croon to music of the night. Send me far into Thy barren land Where the snow clouds the wild wind drives, Where monasteries like gray shrouds stand— August symbols of unlived lives. There pilgrims climb slowly one by one, And behind them a blind man goes: With him I will walk till day is done Up the pathway that no one knows . . .
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Solitude

​SOLITUDE
Solitude is like a rain That from the sea at dusk begins to rise; It floats remote across the far-off plain Upward into its dwelling-place, the skies, Then o'er the town it slowly sinks again. Like rain it softly falls at that dim hour When ghostly lanes turn toward the shadowy morn; When bodies weighed with satiate passion's power Sad, disappointed from each other turn; When men with quiet hatred burning deep Together in a common bed must sleep— Through the gray, phantom shadows of the dawn Lo! Solitude floats down the river wan . . .
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Symbols

​SYMBOLS
From infinite longings finite deeds rise As fountains spring toward far-off glowing skies, But rushing swiftly upward weakly bend And trembling from their lack of power descend— So through the falling torrent of our fears Our joyous force leaps like these dancing tears.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Book of Pilgrimage

This page includes translations of five short sections from an extended sequence, beginning in German with the lines: Bei Tag bist du das Hörensagen, / Alle, welche dich suchen, versuchen dich. / Manchmal steht einer auf beim Abendbrot / Lösch mir die Augen aus: ich kann dich sehn, / and In tiefen Nächten grab ich dich, du Schatz.
​ The Book of Pilgrimage
By day Thou are the Legend and the Dream That like a whisper floats about all men, The deep and brooding stillnesses which seem, After the hour has struck, to close again.
And when the day with drowsy gesture bends And sinks to sleep beneath the evening skies, As from each roof a tower of smoke ascends— So does Thy Realm, my God, around me rise.
​All those who seek Thee tempt Thee, And those who find would bind Thee To gesture and to form.
But I would comprehend Thee As the wide Earth unfolds Thee. Thou growest with my maturity, Thou Art in calm and storm.
I ask of Thee no vanity To evidence and prove Thee. Thou Wert in eons old.
Perform no miracles for me, But justify Thy laws to me Which, as the years pass by me, All soundlessly unfold.
​In a house was one who arose from the feast And went forth to wander in distant lands, Because there was somewhere far off in the East A spot which he sought where a great Church stands. And ever his children, when breaking their bread, Thought of him and rose up and blessed him as dead.
In another house was the one who had died, Who still sat at table and drank from the glass And ever within the walls did abide— For out of the house he could no more pass. And his children set forth to seek for the spot Where stands the great Church which he forgot. ​Extinguish my eyes, I still can see you, Close my ears, I can hear your footsteps fall, And without feet I still can follow you, And without voice I still can to you call. Break off my arms, and I can embrace you, Enfold you with my heart as with a hand. Hold my heart, my brain will take fire of you As flax ignites from a lit fire-brand— And flame will sweep in a swift rushing flood Through all the singing currents of my blood.
In the deep nights I dig for you, O Treasure! To seek you over the wide world I roam, For all abundance is but meager measure Of your bright beauty which is yet to come.
Over the road to you the leaves are blowing, Few follow it, the way is long and steep. You dwell in solitude—Oh, does your glowing Heart in some far off valley lie asleep?
My bloody hands, with digging bruised, I've lifted, Spread like a tree I stretch them in the air To find you before day to night has drifted; I reach out into space to seek you there . . .
Then, as though with a swift impatient gesture, Flashing from distant stars on sweeping wing, You come, and over earth a magic vesture Steals gently as the rain falls in the spring.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Silent Hour

​SILENT HOUR
Whoever weeps somewhere out in the world Weeps without cause in the world Weeps over me.
Whoever laughs somewhere out in the night Laughs without cause in the night Laughs at me.
Whoever wanders somewhere in the world Wanders in vain in the world Wanders to me.
Whoever dies somewhere in the world Dies without cause in the world Looks at me.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Song of the Statue

​SONG OF THE STATUE
Who so loveth me that he Will give his precious life for me? I shall be set free from the stone If some one drowns for me in the sea, I shall have life, life of my own,— For life I ache.
I long for the singing blood, The stone is so still and cold. I dream of life, life is good. Will no one love me and be bold And me awake?
I weep and weep alone, Weep always for my stone. What joy is my blood to me If it ripens like red wine? It cannot call back from the sea The life that was given for mine, Given for Love's sake.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Angels

​THE ANGELS
They all have tired mouths And luminous, illimitable souls; And a longing (as if for sin) Trembles at times through their dreams.
They all resemble one another, In God's garden they are silent Like many, many intervals In His mighty melody.
But when they spread their wings They awaken the winds That stir as though God With His far-reaching master hands Turned the pages of the dark book of Beginning.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Ashantee

​THE ASHANTEE
(Jardin d'Acclimatation, Paris)
No vision of exotic southern countries, No dancing women, supple, brown and tall Whirling from out their falling draperies To melodies that beat a fierce mad call;
No sound of songs that from the hot blood rise, No langorous, stretching, dusky, velvet maids Flashing like gleaming weapon their bright eyes, No swift, wild thrill the quickening blood pervades.
Only mouths widening with a still broad smile Of comprehension, a strange knowing leer At white men, at their vanity and guile, An understanding that fills one with fear.
The beasts in cages much more loyal are, Restlessly pacing, pacing to and fro, Dreaming of countries beckoning from afar, Lands where they roamed in days of long ago.
They burn with an unquenched and smothered fire Consumed by longings over which they brood, Oblivious of time, without desire, Alone and lost in their great solitude.
# Poems of Cheer/A Girl's Faith

Across the miles that stretch between,  Through days of gloom or glad sunlight, There shines a face I have not seen  Which yet doth make my world more bright.
He may be near, he may be far,  Or near or far I cannot see, But faithful as the morning star  He yet shall rise and come to me.
What though fate leads us separate ways,  The world is round, and time is fleet. A journey of a few brief days,  And face to face we two shall meet.
Shall meet beneath God's arching skies,  While suns shall blaze, or stars shall gleam, And looking in each other's eyes  Shall hold the past but as a dream.
But round and perfect and complete,  Life like a star shall climb the height, As we two press with willing feet  Together toward the Infinite.
And still behind the space between,  As back of dawns the sunbeams play, There shines the face I have not seen,  Whose smile shall wake my world to-day.
# Poems of Cheer/A Leaf

Somebody said, in the crowd, last eve,  That you were married, or soon to be. I have not thought of you, I believe,  Since last we parted. Let me see: Five long Summers have passed since then -  Each has been pleasant in its own way - And you are but one of a dozen men  Who have played the suitor a Summer day.
But, nevertheless, when I heard your name,  Coupled with some one's, not my own, There burned in my bosom a sudden flame,  That carried me back to the day that is flown. I was sitting again by the laughing brook,  With you at my feet, and the sky above, And my heart was fluttering under your look -  The unmistakable look of Love.
Again your breath, like a South wind, fanned  My cheek, where the blushes came and went; And the tender clasp of your strong, warm hand  Sudden thrills through my pulses sent. Again you were mine by Love's own right -  Mine for ever by Love's decree: So for a moment it seemed last night,  When somebody mentioned your name to me.
Just for the moment I thought you mine -  Loving me, wooing me, as of old. The tale remembered seemed half divine -  Though I held it lightly enough when told. The past seemed fairer than when it was near,  As "blessings brighten when taking flight;" And just for the moment I held you dear -  When somebody mentioned your name last night.
# Poems of Cheer/A Reminiscence

I saw the wild honey-bee kissing a rose  A wee one, that grows Down low on the bush, where her sisters above  Cannot see all that's done  As the moments roll on. Nor hear all the whispers and murmurs of love.
They flaunt out their beautiful leaves in the sun,  And they flirt, every one, With the wild bees who pass, and the gay butterflies.  And that wee thing in pink -  Why, they never once think That she's won a lover right under their eyes.
It reminded me, Kate, of a time--you know when!  You were so petite then, Your dresses were short, and your feet were so small.  Your sisters, Maud-Belle  And Madeline--well, They BOTH set their caps for me, after that ball.
How the blue eyes and black eyes smiled up in my face!  'Twas a neck-and-neck race, Till that day when you opened the door in the hall,  And looked up and looked down,  With your sweet eyes of brown, And YOU seemed so tiny, and _I_ felt so tall.
Your sisters had sent you to keep me, my dear,  Till they should appear. Then you were dismissed like a child in disgrace.  How meekly you went!  But your brown eyes, they sent A thrill to my heart, and a flush to my face.
We always were meeting some way after that.  You hung up my hat, And got it again, when I finished my call.  Sixteen, and SO sweet!  Oh, those cute little feet! Shall I ever forget how they tripped down the hall?
Shall I ever forget the first kiss by the door,  Or the vows murmured o'er, Or the rage and surprise of Maud-Belle? Well-a-day,  How swiftly time flows,  And who would suppose That a BEE could have carried me so far away.
# Poems of Cheer/A Song of Life

In the rapture of life and of living,  I lift up my heart and rejoice, And I thank the great Giver for giving  The soul of my gladness a voice. In the glow of the glorious weather,  In the sweet-scented, sensuous air, My burdens seem light as a feather -  They are nothing to bear.
In the strength and the glory of power,  In the pride and the pleasure of wealth (For who dares dispute me my dower  Of talents and youth-time and health?), I can laugh at the world and its sages -  I am greater than seers who are sad, For he is most wise in all ages  Who knows how to be glad.
I lift up my eyes to Apollo,  The god of the beautiful days, And my spirit soars off like a swallow,  And is lost in the light of its rays. Are you troubled and sad? I beseech you  Come out of the shadows of strife - Come out in the sun while I teach you  The secret of life.
Come out of the world--come above it -  Up over its crosses and graves, Though the green earth is fair and I love it,  We must love it as masters, not slaves. Come up where the dust never rises -  But only the perfume of flowers - And your life shall be glad with surprises  Of beautiful hours. Come up where the rare golden wine is  Apollo distills in my sight, And your life shall be happy as mine is,  And as full of delight.
# Poems of Cheer/Aesthetic

In a garb that was guiltless of colours  She stood, with a dull, listless air - A creature of dumps and of dolours,  But most undeniably fair.
The folds of her garment fell round her,  Revealing the curve of each limb; Well proportioned and graceful I found her,  Although quite alarmingly slim.
From the hem of her robe peeped one sandal -  "High art" was she down to her feet; And though I could not understand all  She said, I could see she was sweet.
Impressed by her limpness and languor,  I proffered a chair near at hand; She looked back a mild sort of anger -  Posed anew, and continued to stand.
Some praises I next tried to mutter  Of the fan that she held to her face; She said it was "utterly utter,"  And waved it with languishing grace.
I then, in a strain quite poetic,  Begged her gaze on the bow in the sky, She looked--said its curve was "aesthetic."  But the "tone was too dreadfully high."
Her lovely face, lit by the splendour  That glorified landscape and sea, Woke thoughts that were daring and tender:  Did HER thoughts, too, rest upon me?
"Oh, tell me," I cried, growing bolder,  "Have I in your musings a place?" "Well, yes," she said over her shoulder:  "I was thinking of nothing in space."
# Poems of Charles Baudelaire/To a Madonna

To a Madonna.
(An Ex-Voto in the Spanish taste.)
Madonna, mistress, I would build for thee An altar deep in the sad soul of me; And in the darkest corner of my heart, From mortal hopes and mocking eyes apart, Carve of enamelled blue and gold a shrine For thee to stand erect in, Image divine! And with a mighty Crown thou shalt be crowned Wrought of the gold of my smooth Verse, set round With starry crystal rhymes; and I will make, O mortal maid, a Mantle for thy sake, And weave it of my jealousy, a gown Heavy, barbaric, stiff, and weighted down With my distrust, and broider round the hem Not pearls, but all my tears in place of them. And then thy wavering, trembling robe shall be All the desires that rise and fall in me From mountain-peaks to valleys of repose, Kissing thy lovely body’s white and rose. For thy humiliated feet divine, Of my Respect I’ll make thee Slippers fine Which, prisoning them within a gentle fold,
Shall keep their imprint like a faithful mould. And if my art, unwearying and discreet, Can make no Moon of Silver for thy feet To have for Footstool, then thy heel shall rest Upon the snake that gnaws within my breast, Victorious Queen of whom our hope is born! And thou shalt trample down and make a scorn Of the vile reptile swollen up with hate. And thou shalt see my thoughts, all consecrate, Like candles set before thy flower-strewn shrine, O Queen of Virgins, and the taper-shine Shall glimmer star-like in the vault of blue, With eyes of flame for ever watching you. While all the love and worship in my sense Will be sweet smoke of myrrh and frankincense. Ceaselessly up to thee, white peak of snow, My stormy spirit will in vapours go!
And last, to make thy drama all complete, That love and cruelty may mix and meet, I, thy remorseful torturer, will take All the Seven Deadly Sins, and from them make In darkest joy, Seven Knives, cruel-edged and keen, And like a juggler choosing, O my Queen, That spot profound whence love and mercy start, I'll plunge them all within thy panting heart!
# Poems of Cheer/A Dream

That was a curious dream; I thought the three  Great planets that are drawing near the sun  With such unerring certainty begun To talk together in a mighty glee. They spoke of vast convulsions which would be  Throughout the solar system--the rare fun  Of watching haughty stars drop, one by one, And vanish in a seething vapour sea.
I thought I heard them comment on the earth -  That small dark object--doomed beyond a doubt.  They wondered if live creatures moved about Its tiny surface, deeming it of worth.  And then they laughed--'twas such a singing shout That I awoke and joined too in their mirth.
# Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral/end matter

Layout 2
Lately Published in 2 vols. Twelves, (Price 5s. sewed,)
THE
MEMOIRS
OF
Miss WILLIAMS.
A
History founded on Facts.
By A. B***,
LONDON: Printed for E. Johnson, in Ave Mary Lane; and A. Bell, near the Saracen's Head, ALDGATE.
Written by the same Author,
Shortly will be published, (in a neat Pocket Volume.)
THE
CHURCH-MEMBER's DIRECTORY,
OR,
EVERY CHRISTIAN's COMPANION.
Designed for the Use of such as have engaged in a solemn Connection with Christ's Visible Church.
WHEREIN
The Duties of that high Relation are considered, both in a religious and moral Point of View,
TOGETHER WITH
An Address to those who have an Intention of entering upon that important Character.
For which of you intending to build a tower, sitteth not down first and counteth the cost, whether he have sufficient to finish it?
Lest haply after he hath laid the foundation, and is not able to finish it, all that behold it, begin to mock him.
Saying, This man began to build, and was not able to finish.
Luke Chap. xiv. Ver. 28, 29, 30.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Hwomestead

THE HWOMESTEAD.
If I had all the land my zight  Can overlook vrom Chalwell hill, Vrom Sherborn left to Blanvord right,  Why I could be but happy still. An’ I be happy wi’ my spot O’ freehold ground an’ mossy cot, An’ shoulden get a better lot  If I had all my will.
My orcha’d’s wide, my trees be young;  An’ they do bear such heavy crops, Their boughs, lik’ onion-rwopes a-hung,  Be all a-trigg’d to year, wi’ props. I got some geärden groun’ to dig, A parrock, an’ a cow an’ pig; I got zome cider vor to swig,  An’ eäle o’ malt an’ hops.
I’m landlord o’ my little farm,  I’m king ’ithin my little pleäce; I don’t break laws, an’ don’t do harm,  An’ bent afeär’d o’ noo man’s feäce. When I’m a-cover’d wi’ my thatch, Noo man do deäre to lift my latch; Where honest han’s do shut the hatch,  There fear do leäve the pleäce.
My lofty elem trees do screen  My brown-ruf’d house, an’ here below, My geese do strut athirt the green,  An’ hiss an’ flap their wings o’ snow; As I do walk along a rank Ov apple trees, or by a bank, Or zit upon a bar or plank,  To see how things do grow.