OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Out of Flanders

OUT OF FLANDERS
Three of us sat on the firing-bench Watching the clouds sail by— Watching the gray dawn blowing up Like smoke across the sky. And I thought as I listened to London Joe Tell of his leave in town, That's good vers libre with a Cockney twang; I'll remember and write it down.
W'en I went 'ome on furlough, My missus says to me, "Joe, 'Ow many 'Uns 'ave you killed?" An' I says to 'er, "'Uns?" Not thinkin' just wot she meant. "Yes. 'Uns," she says, "them sneakin', low-lived 'Uns!" Bitter? Not 'arf, she ain't! An' they're all the same w'y in Lunnon.
My old mate Bill, who's lame An' couldn't enlist on that account, 'E staked me to a pint of ale At the Red Lion. Proper stuff it was Arter this flat French beer. "Well, 'ere's to old times!" says Bill, Raisin' 'is glass, "An' bad luck to the 'Uns you've sent below! ​'E arsked if I'd shot an' seen 'em fall, Wanted the de-tails and wanted 'em all!
An' there was my old hoss in Balham, Gave me a quid w'ich I took, willin' enough, Altho I made a stall at refusin'. "That's all right, Joe, boy! Glad to do it! It ain't much, but it'll 'elp you to 'ave a pleasant week, But w'en you goes back to the trenches, I wants you to take a crack at the 'Uns fer me! Get me a German fer every penny in that sovereign!" 'e says, Smashin' 'is fist on the table An' upsettin' a bottle o' ink. "Lay 'em out!" 'e says; "Now tell me, 'ow many you killed, about?"
Speakin' o' 'ymns o' 'ate, They sings 'em in Lunnon, I'm tellin' you straight! You ought to see their faces w'en they arsks you about the 'Uns! Lor' lummy! They ain't arf a bloodthirsty lot! An' the wimmen as bad as the men. I was glad to get back to the trenches again W'ere there's more of a 'uman feelin'.
​Now, us blokes out 'ere, We knows old Fritzie ain't so bad as 'e's painted (An' likely, they knows the same about us). Wot I mean is, 'e ain't no worse than wot we are, Take 'im man fer man. There's good an' bad on both sides. But do you think you can s'y anything good About a German, w'en yer in Lunnon? Strike me pink! They won't believe you! 'E's a 'Un, wotever that is, Some kind o' wild beast, I reckon— A cross between a snake An' one o' them boars with 'orns on their noses Out at Regent's Park Zoo.
—James Norman Hall
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Peace with a Sword

PEACE WITH A SWORD
By permission of the author
Peace! How we love her and the good she brings On broad, benignant wings! And we have clung to her, how close and long, While she has made us strong! Now we must guard her lest her power cease, And in the harried world be no more peace. Even with a sword, Help us, O Lord!
For us no patient peace, the weary goal Of a war-sickened soul; No peace that battens on misfortune's pain, Swollen with selfish gain, Bending slack knees before a calf of gold, With nerveless fingers impotent to hold The freeman's sword. Not this, O Lord!
No peace bought for us by the martyr dead Of countries reeking red; No peace flung to us from a tyrant's hand, Sop to a servile land. Our Peace the State's strong arm holds high and free, "The placid peace she seeks in liberty," ​Yea, "with a sword." Help us, O Lord!
O Massachusetts! In your golden prime, Not with the bribe of time You won her; subtle words and careful ways In perilous days. No! By your valor, by the patriot blood Of your brave sons poured in a generous flood; Peace, with a sword! Help us, O Lord!
Bring out the banners that defied a king! The tattered colors bring That made a nation one from sea to sea In godly liberty. Unsheathe the patriot sword in time of need, O Massachusetts, shouting in the lead,— "Peace with a sword! Help us, O Lord!"
—Abbie Farwell Brown
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Soldiers of Freedom

SOLDIERS OF FREEDOM
By permission of the author
They veiled their souls with laughter And many a mocking pose, These lads who follow after Wherever Freedom goes; These lads we used to censure For levity and ease On Freedom's high adventure Go shining overseas.
Our springing tears adore them These boys at school and play, Fair-fortuned years before them, Alas! but yesterday. Divine with sudden splendor —Oh how our eyes were blind!— In careless self-surrender They battle for mankind.
Soldiers of Freedom! Gleaming And golden they depart, Transfigured by the dreaming Of boyhood's hidden heart. Her lovers they confess them And, rushing on her foes, Toss her their youth—God bless them!— As lightly as a rose.
—Katharine Lee Bates
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Screens

SCREENS
They put a screen around his bed; A crumpled heap I saw him lie, White counterpane and rough dark head, Those screens—they showed that he would die.
They put the screens around his bed; We might not play the gramophone, And so we played at cards instead And left him dying there alone.
The covers on the screen were red, The counterpanes were white and clean; He might have lived and loved and wed, But now he's done for at nineteen.
An ounce or more of Turkish lead, He got his wounds at Suvla Bay; They've brought the Union Jack to spread Upon him when he goes away.
He'll want those three red screens no more, Another man will get his bed; We'll make the row we did before But—Jove!—I'm sorry that he's dead.
—W. M. Letts
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Seven Days' Leave

SEVEN DAYS' LEAVE
Bravely acted, little lady; Bravely acted, wife of mine. Though I know your heart is aching Almost to the point of breaking, Not a word of what you're feeling, Only just a teardrop stealing. Such a splendid little lady, Such a splendid wife of mine!
Bravely spoken, little lady; Bravely spoken, wife of mine. Just a tightening of your fingers While your hand in mine still lingers; Just "God bless and keep you, dearest; In my thoughts you're always nearest." Such a sportsman, little lady; Such a sportsman, wife of mine!
Is it fair, my little lady? Fair to you, O wife of mine? Seven days we two together, Then we part, perhaps forever. (God! those days, though only seven, Seemed a little glimpse of Heaven!) That's the question, little lady. Yours the answer, wife of mine.
—Captain Blackall
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Since You Went Away

SINCE YOU WENT AWAY
Since you went away, every gay sailor lad, Every khaki-clad soldier I see, Has a place in my heart, and a share in my thoughts And belongs, just a little, to me. He's a comrade of yours, and is bearing his share Of the burden that rests upon you; Both are doing the work that a nation has set For its glorious manhood to do.
Since you went away, I have entered within A sisterhood—mystic and great— Of women who've learned the great lesson, to give And are learning another, to wait. But I strive, like the rest, not to doubt or to fear; To murmur, or sigh, or complain, But to trust in His might, and to know, by His grace, That your sacrifice cannot be vain.
Since you went away, every fold of the flag Has a message that's tender and true; It has always meant liberty, freedom, and right; ​It now means my country—and you. Your honor is part of the deep azure field, Your courage of each crimson bar, And the soul of you, shining, resplendent and clear, Is a part of each beautiful star.
—Allison Brown
# Poems (Denver)/Heavenly Music

HEAVENLY MUSIC.
"If the music of earth is so sweet, what must be the music of heaven, where all the heavenly hosts unite their voices, ten thousand upon ten thousand."
Harlan Page.
# Poems (Bryant, 1821)

* related portals: American literature.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Poems was considered by many to be the first major book of American poetry.
This book is transcribed from a copy in the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Yale Univeristy.
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POEMS
BY
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
CAMBRIDGE:
PRINTED BY HILLIARD AND METCALF.
1821.
POEMS
BY
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
CAMBRIDGE:
PRINTED BY HILLIARD AND METCALF.
1821.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The first poem in this collection was delivered before a literary association. Some of the others have appeared before, in different periodical publications, and are now, by permission, inserted in this volume.
* The Ages5
* To a Waterfowl25
* Translation of a Fragment of Simonides29
* Inscription for the Entrance into a Wood31
* The Yellow Violet33
* Song35
* Green River36
* Thanatopsis39
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 (Bryant, 1821)/Inscription for the Entrance into a Wood

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INSCRIPTION
FOR THE
ENTRANCE INTO A WOOD.
Stranger, if thou hast learnt a truth which needs Experience more than reason, that the world Is full of guilt and misery; and hast known Enough of all its sorrows, crimes and cares To tire thee of it—enter this wild wood And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here Of all that pain’d thee in the haunts of men, And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, But not in vengeance. Misery is wed To guilt. And hence these shades are still the abodes Of undissembled gladness; the thick roof Of green and stirring branches, is alive And musical with birds, that sing and sport In wantonness of spirit; while, below, ​The squirrel with raised paws and form erect Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the glade Try their thin wings, and dance in the warm beam That waked them into life. Even the green trees Partake the deep contentment; as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in, and sheds a blessing on the scene. Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy Existence, than the winged plunderer That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves, And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees, That lead from knoll to knoll, a causey rude, Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots With all their earth upon them, twisting high, Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o’er its bed Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, Seems with continuous laughter to rejoice In its own being. Softly tread the marge, Lest from her midway perch, thou scare the wren That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.
# Poems (Bryant, 1821)/Song

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SONG.
Soon as the glaz’d and gleaming snow Reflects the day-dawn cold and clear, The hunter of the west must go In depth of woods to seek the deer.
His rifle on his shoulder plac’d, His stores of death arrang’d with skill, His mocasins and snow-shoes lac’d, Why lingers he beside the hill?
Far in the dim and doubtful light, Where woody slopes a valley leave, He sees what none but lover might, The dwelling of his Genevieve.
And oft he turns his truant eye And pauses oft and lingers near. But when he marks the brightening sky He bounds away to hunt the deer.
# Poems (Bryant)

* related portals: American literature.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Poems was considered by many to be the first major book of American poetry. The 1821 first edition includes the first publication of the revised text of Thanatopsis and the first publication of The Ages. The first edition consisted of only eight poems on 44 pages, but later editions were greatly expanded with additional poems on 240 pages.
* Poems, 1st edition (Cambridge: Hilliard and Metcalf, 1821)
* Poems, 1832 edition (1832) IA
* Poems, 5th edition (1839) IA
* Poems, 6th edition (1840) IA
* Poems (1854) (transcription project)
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 (Bryant, 1821)/Green River

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GREEN RIVER.
When breezes are soft, and skies are fair, I steal an hour from study and care, And hie me away to the woodland scene, Where wanders the stream with waters of green, As if the bright fringe of herbs on its brink Had given their stain to the wave they drink. And they, whose meadows it murmurs through, Have named the stream from its own fair hue. Yet pure its waters, its shallows are bright With coloured pebbles, and sparkles of light, And clear the depths where the eddies play, And dimples deepen and whirl away; And the plane-tree’s speckled arms o’ershoot The swifter current that mines its root; Through whose shifting leaves, as you walk the hill, The quivering glimmer of sun and rill With a sudden flash on the eye is thrown, Like the ray that streams from the diamond stone. Oh, loveliest there the spring days come, With blossoms, and birds, and wild bees’ hum; ​The flowers of summer are fairest there, And freshest the breath of the summer air, And the swimmer comes, in the season of heat To bathe in those waters so pure and sweet. Yet, fair as thou art, thou shunn’st to glide, Beautiful stream! by the village side, But windest away from haunts of men, To silent valley, and shaded glen. And forest, and meadow, and slope of hill, Around thee, are lonely, lovely and still. Lonely—save when, by thy rippling tides, From thicket to thicket the angler glides; Or the simpler comes, with basket and book, For herbs of power on thy banks to look; Or haply some idle dreamer like me, To wander, and muse, and gaze on thee. Still—save the chirp of birds that feed On the river cherry and seedy reed; And thy own wild music, gushing out With mellow murmur, or fairy shout, From dawn to the blush of another day, Like traveller singing along his way. ​That fairy music I never hear, Nor gaze on those waters so green and clear, And mark them winding away from sight, Darkened with shade, or flashing with light, While o’er thee, the vine to its thicket clings, And the zephyr stoops to freshen his wings;— But I wish that fate had left me free To wander these quiet haunts with thee, Till the eating cares of earth should depart, And the peace of the scene pass into my heart; And I envy thy stream as it glides along Through its beautiful banks, in a trance of song. Though forced to drudge for the dregs of men, And scrawl strange words with the barbarous pen, And mingle among the jostling crowd, Where the sons of strife are subtle and loud; I sometimes come to this quiet place To breathe the air that ruffles thy face, And gaze upon thee in silent dream; For, in thy lonely and lovely stream, An image of that calm life appears That won my heart in my greener years.
# Poems (Bryant, 1821)/To a Waterfowl

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TO A WATERFOWL.
TO A WATERFOWL.
Whither, ’midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue Thy solitary way?
Vainly the fowler’s eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, Thy figure floats along.
Seek’st thou the plashy brink Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, Or where the rocking billows rise and sink On the chafed ocean side?
There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast,— The desert and illimitable air,— Lone wandering, but not lost., ​All day thy wings have fann’d At that far height, the cold thin atmosphere; Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land, Though the dark night is near.
And soon that toil shall end, Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend Soon o’er thy sheltered nest.
Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.
He, who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright.
# Poems (Bryant, 1821)/Translation of a Fragment of Simonides

Translation of a poem fragment from Simonides of Keos
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TRANSLATION
OF A
FRAGMENT OF SIMONIDES.
The night winds howl’d—the billows dash’d Against the tossing chest;— And Danaë, to her broken heart, Her slumbering infant prest.
My little child—in tears she said— To wake and weep is mine; But thou canst sleep—thou dost not know Thy mother’s lot, and thine.
The moon is up, the moon beams smile, And tremble on the main; But dark, within my floating cell, To me they smile in vain.
Thy folded mantle wraps thee warm, And thy long locks are dry; ​Thou dost not hear the shrieking gust, Nor breakers booming high.
Yet thou, didst thou but know thy fate, Would’st melt, my tears to see; And I, methinks, should weep the less, Would’st thou but weep with me.
Yet, dear one, sleep, and sleep ye winds That vex the restless brine— When shall these eyes, my babe, be seal’d As peacefully as thine!
# Poems (Bryant, 1821)/The Yellow Violet

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THE YELLOW VIOLET.
When beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue-bird’s warble know, The yellow violet’s modest bell Peeps from the last year’s leaves below.
Ere russet fields their green resume, Sweet flower! I love in forest bare, To meet thee, when thy faint perfume Alone is in the virgin air.
Of all her train, the hands of Spring First plant thee in the watery mould; And I have seen thee blossoming Beside the snow-bank’s edges cold.
Thy Parent Sun, who bade thee view Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, And streak’d with jet thy glowing lip. ​Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, And earthward bent thy gentle eye, Unapt the passing view to meet, When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.
Oft, in the sunless April day, Thy early smile has staid my walk; But midst the gorgeous blooms of May I pass’d thee on thy humble stalk.
So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried; I copied them—but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride.
And when again the genial hour Awakes the painted tribes of light, I’ll not o’erlook the modest flower That made the woods of April bright.
# Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands 1842/Preface

PREFACE.
A Traveller in climes so generally visited, as those which have given subjects to the present volume, will find it difficult to say what has not been said before. By every celebrated stream, or mountain, amid the ivy of every mouldering ruin, at the gate of every castle, palace, and cathedral, he doubtless met other travellers, with their note-books; and what he saw and described, they also may see and describe, perchance with a more glowing pencil.
Yet if he must resign the prospect of finding untrodden paths, he may still fix upon some spots, where it will be profitable both to muse and to record impressions; and if he forfeits the right of discovery, may retain the power of promoting good and pleasurable feelings. With such hopes the following pages have been drawn forth, and modified from the notes ​of a Journal regularly kept, during a tour which occupied the greater part of a year.
Their writer has not sought to dwell upon the dark shades of the countries that it was her privilege to visit. It might have been easy to fix the eye upon the blemishes that appertain to each, as it is to discern foibles in the most exalted character. Yet it is but a losing office to quit our own quiet fireside, and throw ourselves upon the stormy billows, for the sake of finding fault. This we might do with less fatigue and peril at home. She might, indeed, have picked up a nettle here and there, but the flowers were sweeter. She might have gathered thorns and brambles to sting others or herself with, but what she has missed, multitudes who go the same road can find, and cull them if they choose. So the lovers of poignancy may be gratified from many sources, should they be compelled to pronounce this volume vapid and void of discrimination.
"When I have called the bad, bad," says Goethe, "how much is gained by that? He, who would work aright, had better busy himself to show forth and to do that which is good." And methinks he, who leaves his native land to take note of foreign realms, ​and is brought again in safety to his own home and people, owes not only a great debt of gratitude to his Preserver, but a new service of charity to those whom He has made. It would seem that an obligation was laid on him not to use the knowledge thus acquired, to embarrass and embroil God's creatures, but to brighten the bands of the nations with a wreath of love.
And now, dear reader, if any such there be, who shall have patiently finished these my pages, thou art for this very kindness, as a brother or sister unto me. And as we have thus communed together of pleasant things, without, perchance, having seen each other's faces in the flesh, may we be so blessed as to meet and commune in that country where no stranger sorroweth, where no wanderer goeth forth from his home with tears, and "where there is no more sea."
L. H. S.
Thursday, Dec. 1, 1842.
# Persia/Preface

PREFACE.
The country to which this volume relates, is one of those which possesses the double interest of ancient and modern celebrity. Situated near, if not actually embracing the cradle of the human race, Persia was, according to the concurrent testimony of tradition and history, at an early period of the world a powerful empire. The ineffectual struggles of its despotic rulers to enslave the independent republics of Greece, and its rapid subjugation by the Macedonian conqueror, occupy a very prominent place in the annals of antiquity: while its reduction by the disciples of Mahomet, the many subsequent invasions of barbarous marauders, its frequent hostilities with Turkey, and the commercial relations which long subsisted between Persia and some of the European States, have in more recent ages rendered it an object of curiosity and attention.
Little, however, was done, till near the close of the seventeenth century, towards making the western world acquainted with a country, with the name of which all that is most attractive, elegant, and tender, in oriental literature, romance, and poetry, is intimately associated. The work of the accurate Chardin then removed much of the profound obscurity in which the character and manners of the Persians were enveloped. That writer ​continued to be the only authority on those subjects till the commencement of the present century, since which the assiduity bestowed by our countrymen on the study of the language and letters of Persia, our frequent intercourse with that country, the repeated embassies sent to its sovereign, and the travels, researches, and labours of an Ouseley, Malcolm, Morier, Kinnier, Scott, Waring and Porter, have furnished nearly as complete notions respecting the government, laws, manners, customs and character of the people of this empire, as we possess relative to those of any European nation.
The reader will naturally conclude that in the compilation of this volume, the valuable sources of information enumerated above, have not been overlooked. To Mr. Morier's truly interesting narratives of his two journeys, and the recent costly publication of Sir Robert Ker Porter, he professes to owe particular obligations. A correct portraiture of costume and character is given in the engravings, some of which are executed from original designs by Persian artists.