OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Modern Russian Poetry/Nomads of Beauty

NOMADS OF BEAUTY
"You are artists, Nomads of Beauty."
—"Flamings."
For you—ancestral acres,
And, choked, the graveyard waits.
For us, the free forsakers,— The camp that Beauty fates.
For us—the daily treason,
The tents we daily flee,
Mocked by each dawning season
Of our captivity.
Believe the dimmer distance,
All curtains: magic veils,
All Springtides' green persistence,
Whole heaven's vasty gales!
Oh, vagrant artists, shepherd
Your droves of dreams unbound;
And sow, although you jeopard
The soon-abandoned ground.
And from your open spaces
Rush down, a whirling horde,
Where slaves tamed to the traces
Adore their overlord.
Trample their Edens, plow them,
Oh, Attila, with scars.
And grow—to Beauty vow them— Your steppe flowers like stars.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Modern Russian Poetry/Piotr Oreshin

Piotr Oreshin
Oreshin belongs to the poetic progeny of the Revolution.
# Modern Russian Poetry/The Trumpet Call

THE TRUMPET CALL
Over earth awakes a whirring,
And a rustling, and a stirring,
Trumpet-voices fill the skies:
"Lo, they call us. Brothers, rise!"
"No. The darkness holds unshaken.
I will sleep, and not awaken.
Do not rouse me. Do not call.
Do not strike the coffin-wall."
"Now you dare not sleep. Resounding
Sternly, the last trump is sounding.
They are rising from the tomb.
As from the maternal womb
Of the opened earth forth-flinging,
From their graves the dead are springing."
"No, I cannot. All unuttered
My words died. My eyes are shuttered.
I shall not believe their lies.
I shall not, I cannot rise!
Brother,—I am ashamed and shrinking,— Dust, corruption,—rotting, stinking!"
"Brother, God has seen our prison.
All shall wake, and all be risen.
All shall yet be judged by Him.
Cherubim and seraphim
High the holy Throne are bearing!
Here our heavenly King is faring.
Brother, he must live who dies.
Glad or grieving, thou shalt rise."
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Modern Russian Poetry/The Tryst

THE TRYST
In the land of Ra the flaming, by the shores of Nile's slow
waters, where the roofs of Thebes were seen,
In the days of yore you loved me, as dark Isis loved
Osiris, sister, friend and worshiped queen!
And the pyramid its shadow on our evening trysts would
lean.
Oh, the mystery remember of our meeting in the temple,
in the aisle of granite, dim and straight,
And the hour when, lights extinguished, and the sacred
dances broken,—each to each was sudden mate;
Our caresses, burning whispers, ardors that we could not
sate.
In the splendor of the ball-room, clinging to me, white
and tender,—through Time's curtain rift in twain,
Did your ear not catch the anthems, mingling with the
crash of cymbals, and the people's answering refrain?
Did you not repeat in rapture that our love awoke again?
Once before, we knew existence, this our bliss is a remem-
brance, and our love—a memory;
Casting off its ancient ashes, flames again our hungry
passion, flames and kindles you and me,— As of old, by Nile's slow waters, in the land beyond the
sea.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Modern Russian Poetry/The Unknown Woman

THE UNKNOWN WOMAN
I have foreknown Thee! Oh, I have foreknown Thee.
Going,
The years have shown me Thy premonitory face.
Intolerably clear, the farthest sky is glowing.
I wait in silence Thy withheld and worshiped grace.
The farthest sky is glowing: white for Thy appearing.
Yet terror clings to me. Thy image will be strange.
And insolent suspicion will rouse upon Thy nearing.
The features long foreknown, beheld at last, will change.
How shall I then be fallen! low, with no defender:
Dead dreams will conquer me; the glory, glimpsed, will change.
The farthest sky is glowing! Nearer looms the splendor!
Yet terror clings to me. Thy image will be strange.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Modern Russian Poetry/Three Springs

THREE SPRINGS
Three springs in life's unbroken joyless desert
Mysteriously issue from the sands:
The spring of youth, uneven and rebellious,
Bears swift its sparkling stream through sunny lands;
Life's exiles drink the wave of inspiration
That swells the limpid fount of Castaly;
But 'tis the deep, cold wellspring of oblivion
That slakes most sweetly thirst and ecstasy.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Modern Russian Poetry/The Seeking of Self

THE SEEKING OF SELF
Dying, the seed will discover the self it finds in the losing.
That is, oh, Nature, thy law! That is thy lesson, oh, Man!
Hearing dark music, the poet knoweth no rest; he abideth— Purer and purer the sound, clearer the fore-uttered word.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Modern Russian Poetry/The Surf

THE SURF
The day's wild ocean sings and thunders,
And beats against the fatal shore,
This breaker with dumb sorrow sunders,
And these like laughing victors roar,
Their sheen the joy of vernal wonders,
Their sheen—vast winter's shining hoar.
In wrath triumphant forward-swinging,
The lifted billow calls, and fails,
A joyous giant, shouting, singing,
Its voice the voice of sounding gales,
Its glory in the sunlight flinging
Whose noonday glow it holds and hails.
Across the sea, now lightly foaming,
Another rears, that stirs the deep,
And floods the shore with silence, gloaming;
Morose and slow it seems to creep
Like one who drops, worn out with roaming,
From his bent back a fatal heap.
Each moment new, with changing power,
The surf is thundering, alone.
Now idle, now it seems to lower,
Hymning a Silence all unknown,
Like a dark heart asleep,—for hour
On hour in restless monotone.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Modern Russian Poetry/Transfiguration: III

Written in November 1917, first published in 1918.
TRANSFIGURATION: III
Eh, Russians,
Fowlers of the universe.
You who trailed heaven with the net of dawn,
Lift your trumpets!
Beneath the plow of storm
The dumb earth roars.
Golden-tusked, the colter breaks
The cliffs.
A new sower
Roams the fields.
New seeds
He casts into the furrows.
A guest of light drives toward us
In a coach.
Across the clouds
A mare races.
The breech-band on the mare:
The blue;
The bells on the breech-band:
The stars.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Modern Russian Poetry/The Prophet

Written in 1826, first published in 1828.
THE PROPHET
I dragged my flesh through desert gloom,
Tormented by the spirit's yearning,
And saw a six-winged Seraph loom
Upon the footpath's barren turning.
And as a dream in slumber lies
So light his finger on my eyes,—
My wizard eyes grew wide and wary:
An eagle's, startled from her eyrie.
He touched my ears, and lo! a sea
Of storming voices burst on me.
I heard the whirling heavens' tremor,
The angels' flight and soaring sweep,
The sea-snakes coiling in the deep,
The sap the vine's green tendrils carry.
And to my lips the Seraph clung
And tore from me my sinful tongue,
My cunning tongue and idle-worded;
The subtle serpent's sting he set Between my lips—his hand was wet,
His bloody hand my mouth begirded.
And with a sword he cleft my breast
And took the heart with terror turning,
And in my gaping bosom pressed
A coal that throbbed there, black and burning.
Upon the wastes, a lifeless clod,
I lay, and heard the voice of God:
"Arise, oh prophet, watch and hearken,
And with my Will thy soul engird,
Through lands that dim and seas that darken,
Burn thou men's hearts with this, my Word."
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Modern Russian Poetry/The Salt Song

THE SALT SONG
(From "Who Can Live Happily in Russia?")
God's will be done!
No food he'll try,
The youngest son— Look, he will die.
A crust I got,
Another bit— He touched it not:
"Put salt on it!"
Of salt no shred,
No pinch I see!
"Take flour, instead,"
God whispered me.
Two bites, or one— His mouth he pouts,
The little son.
"More salt!" he shouts.
The bit appears
Again all floured,
And wet with tears
It was devoured.
The mother said
She'd saved her dear. . . .
Salt was the bread— How salt the tear!
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Miscellaneous Plays/Rayner

RAYNER:
A TRAGEDY,
IN FIVE ACTS.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
MEN:
Rayner. Count Zaterloo, a worthless dissipated nobleman of ruined fortune, and chief of a band of lawless ruined men, like himself. Bernard,} Gentlemen and followers of Zaterloo, Sebastian, } Hardibrand, an old general. Mardonio, a monk. Old Man of the Wood. Ohio, a negro attached to the prison. Herman, servant to Rayner. Richard. Bertram. Gobas. Keeper of the Prison, Clown, Executioners, Turnkey, Jailor, Messenger, Landlord, Confessor, Crowd, &c.
WOMEN:
Elizabeth. Countess Zaterloo, mother to Zaterloo. Mira, a courtezan. Alice, friend to Mira.
Scene,—Germany, near the frontiers of Poland and Silesia.
# Miscellaneous Plays/The Country Inn

THE COUNTRY INN:
A COMEDY.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
MEN:
Sir John Hazelwood. Worshipton, nephew to Sir John. Amaryllis, a poet. David, servant, &c. of the inn. Will, postboy of the inn. Jenkins, servant to Worshipton. Piper, Fiddler, &c.
WOMEN:
Lady Goodbody. Miss Martin, } nieces to Lady Goodbody. Miss Hannah Clodpate,} Dolly, maid of the inn. Landlady. Hopkins, Lady Goodbody's maid. Sally.
Scene,—A Country Inn, on one of the cross-roads leading from the North of England to London.
# Men-at-the-Bar/Dillon, Henry Joseph

​Dillon, Henry Joseph, a student of the Middle Temple 20 April, 1880, called to the bar 6 June, 1S83 (3rd son of John Blake Dillon, of Dublin, bar.-at-law, dec.); born .
# Men-at-the-Bar/Dillon, John Francis Kellet

​Dillon, John Francis Kellet, B.A., Corpus Christi Coll., Camb., 1851, a student of the Middle Temple 5 June, 1851, called to the bar 9 June, 1854 (only son of Garrett Dillon, of Bath, M.D.); born , .
    Allahabad, North-west Provinces India.
# Men-at-the-Bar/Disney, Henry William

​Disney, Henry William, B.A., Hertford Coll., Oxon, 1880 (scholar), a student of Lincoln's Inn 11 Jan., 1882 (then aged 23), called to the bar 17 Nov., 1884 (eldest son of Rev. William Henry Disney, rector of Winwick, co. Warwick); born 5 Jan., 1858.
    Winwick Rectory, Rugby.
# Men-at-the-Bar/Dineley, George Giffard

​Dineley, George Giffard, B.A., Trin. Coll., Camb., 1861, equity draftsman and conveyancer, a student of Lincoln's Inn 12 Nov., 1863 (then aged 24), called to the bar 17 Nov., 1866 (only son of Rev. Francis Plumer Giffard Dineley, late of Churchill, co. Worcester, dec.); born , 1839.
    12, Foulis Terrace, Onslow Gardens, S.W.; 8, Stone Buildings, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.
# Men-at-the-Bar/Dillon, Frederick William

​Dillon, Frederick William, practises before supreme court of Allahabad, a student of the Inner Temple 20 Oct., 1879 (then aged 19), called to the bar 21 June, 1882 (3rd surviving son of late Luke Dillon, Esq., of Allahabad, pleader High Court North-west Provinces India); born , 1860.
    Allahabad, North-West Provinces India.
# Men-at-the-Bar/Dillwyn, Henry de la Beche

​Dillwyn, Henry de la Beche, LL.B., Trin. Coll., Camb., 1866, junior counsel to the Post Office, on the South Wales circuit, J.P. Glamorganshire, a student of the Inner Temple 20 April, 1866 (then aged 23), called to the bar 7 June, 1869 (only son of Lewis Llewellyn Dillwyn, Esq., M.P., of Hendrefoilan, Swansea); born 18 May, 1843.
    Hendrefoilan, Swansea; 2, Pump Court, Temple, E.C.
# Men-at-the-Bar/Dimsdale, Charles Robert Southwell

​Dimsdale, Charles Robert Southwell, B.A. Trin. Coll., Camb., a member of the South-eastern circuit, a student of the Inner Temple 1 June, 1877 (then aged 20), called to the bar 21 April, 1880 (eldest son of Baron Dimsdale, Of Essendine Place, Herts); born , 1856; married , 1882, Alice, eldest dau. of Charles J. Monk, Esq., M.P.
    Essendine Place, Hatfield, Herts; 2, Essex Court, Temple, E.C.
# Men-at-the-Bar/Divett, Edward Ross

​Divett, Edward Ross, M.A., Trin. Coll., Camb., 1864, a student of the Inner Temple 16 April, 1859 (then aged 21), called to the bar 17 Nov., 1864 (eldest son of Edward Divett, Esq., M.P., of Bystock, Devon); born , 1838.
    Care of Bovey Tracey, Newton Abbot.
# Men-at-the-Bar/Dixon, John

​Dixon, John, conveyancer and equity draftsman, author of Law of Partnership, a student of Lincoln's Inn 29 April, 1865 (then aged 26), called to the bar 27 Jan., 1868 (eldest son of John Dixon, late of Sheffield, Yorks, dec.); born , 1839.
    11, New Square, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.
# Men-at-the-Bar/Dixon, John Marsh

​Dixon, John Marsh, B.A., LL.B., Trin. Hall, Camb., 1880, a student of the Inner Temple 14 Feb., 1880 (then aged 23), called to the bar 18 April, 1883 (2nd son of William Henry Dixon, of Edgbaston, coal merchant); born , 1857.
    6, Stone Buildings, Lincoln's Inn, W.C.
# Mountain Interval/Range-finding

THE BATTLE rent a cobweb diamond-strung And cut a flower beside a ground bird’s nest Before it stained a single human breast. The stricken flower bent double and so hung. And still the bird revisited her young. A butterfly its fall had dispossessed A moment sought in air his flower of rest, Then lightly stooped to it and fluttering clung.
On the bare upland pasture there had spread O’ernight ’twixt mullein stalks a wheel of thread And straining cables wet with silver dew. A sudden passing bullet shook it dry. The indwelling spider ran to greet the fly, But finding nothing, sullenly withdrew.
# Mountain Interval/Out, Out—

The buzz-saw snarled and rattled in the yard And made dust and dropped stove-length sticks of wood, Sweet-scented stuff when the breeze drew across it. And from there those that lifted eyes could count Five mountain ranges one behind the other Under the sunset far into Vermont. And the saw snarled and rattled, snarled and rattled, As it ran light, or had to bear a load. And nothing happened: day was all but done. Call it a day, I wish they might have said To please the boy by giving him the half hour That a boy counts so much when saved from work. His sister stood beside them in her apron To tell them “Supper.” At the word, the saw, As if to prove saws knew what supper meant, Leaped out at the boy’s hand, or seemed to leap— He must have given the hand. However it was, Neither refused the meeting. But the hand! The boy’s first outcry was a rueful laugh, As he swung toward them holding up the hand Half in appeal, but half as if to keep The life from spilling. Then the boy saw all— Since he was old enough to know, big boy Doing a man’s work, though a child at heart— He saw all spoiled. “Don’t let him cut my hand off— The doctor, when he comes. Don’t let him, sister!” So. But the hand was gone already. The doctor put him in the dark of ether. He lay and puffed his lips out with his breath. And then—the watcher at his pulse took fright. No one believed. They listened at his heart. Little—less—nothing!—and that ended it. No more to build on there. And they, since they Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1963, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 60 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Mountain Interval/Putting in the Seed

YOU come to fetch me from my work to-night When supper’s on the table, and we’ll see If I can leave off burying the white Soft petals fallen from the apple tree. (Soft petals, yes, but not so barren quite, Mingled with these, smooth bean and wrinkled pea;) And go along with you ere you lose sight Of what you came for and become like me, Slave to a springtime passion for the earth. How Love burns through the Putting in the Seed On through the watching for that early birth When, just as the soil tarnishes with weed,
The sturdy seedling with arched body comes Shouldering its way and shedding the earth crumbs.
# Mountain Interval/The Cow in Apple Time

SOMETHING inspires the only cow of late To make no more of a wall than an open gate, And think no more of wall-builders than fools. Her face is flecked with pomace and she drools A cider syrup. Having tasted fruit, She scorns a pasture withering to the root. She runs from tree to tree where lie and sweeten The windfalls spiked with stubble and worm-eaten. She leaves them bitten when she has to fly. She bellows on a knoll against the sky. Her udder shrivels and the milk goes dry.
# Mountain Interval/The Exposed Nest

YOU were forever finding some new play. So when I saw you down on hands and knees In the meadow, busy with the new-cut hay, Trying, I thought, to set it up on end, I went to show you how to make it stay, If that was your idea, against the breeze, And, if you asked me, even help pretend To make it root again and grow afresh. But ’twas no make-believe with you to-day, Nor was the grass itself your real concern, Though I found your hand full of wilted fern, Steel-bright June-grass, and blackening heads of clover. ’Twas a nest full of young birds on the ground The cutter-bar had just gone champing over (Miraculously without tasting flesh) And left defenseless to the heat and light. You wanted to restore them to their right Of something interposed between their sight And too much world at once—could means be found. The way the nest-full every time we stirred Stood up to us as to a mother-bird Whose coming home has been too long deferred, Made me ask would the mother-bird return And care for them in such a change of scene And might our meddling make her more afraid. That was a thing we could not wait to learn. We saw the risk we took in doing good, But dared not spare to do the best we could Though harm should come of it; so built the screen You had begun, and gave them back their shade. All this to prove we cared. Why is there then No more to tell? We turned to other things. I haven’t any memory—have you?— Of ever coming to the place again To see if the birds lived the first night through, And so at last to learn to use their wings.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1963, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 60 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Mountain Interval/Meeting and Passing

As I went down the hill along the wall There was a gate I had leaned at for the view And had just turned from when I first saw you As you came up the hill. We met. But all We did that day was mingle great and small Footprints in summer dust as if we drew The figure of our being less than two But more than one as yet. Your parasol Pointed the decimal off with one deep thrust. And all the time we talked you seemed to see Something down there to smile at in the dust. (Oh, it was without prejudice to me!) Afterward I went past what you had passed Before we met and you what I had passed.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1963, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 60 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Mountain Interval/Pea Brush

I WALKED down alone Sunday after church To the place where John has been cutting trees To see for myself about the birch He said I could have to bush my peas.
The sun in the new-cut narrow gap Was hot enough for the first of May, And stifling hot with the odor of sap From stumps still bleeding their life away.
The frogs that were peeping a thousand shrill Wherever the ground was low and wet, The minute they heard my step went still To watch me and see what I came to get.
Birch boughs enough piled everywhere!— All fresh and sound from the recent axe. Time someone came with cart and pair And got them off the wild flower’s backs.
They might be good for garden things To curl a little finger round, The same as you seize cat’s-cradle strings, And lift themselves up off the ground.
Small good to anything growing wild, They were crooking many a trillium That had budded before the boughs were piled And since it was coming up had to come.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1963, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 60 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Mountain Interval/The Gum-gatherer

THERE overtook me and drew me in To his down-hill, early-morning stride, And set me five miles on my road Better than if he had had me ride, A man with a swinging bag for load And half the bag wound round his hand. We talked like barking above the din Of water we walked along beside. And for my telling him where I’d been And where I lived in mountain land To be coming home the way I was, He told me a little about himself. He came from higher up in the pass Where the grist of the new-beginning brooks Is blocks split off the mountain mass— And hopeless grist enough it looks Ever to grind to soil for grass. (The way it is will do for moss.) There he had built his stolen shack. It had to be a stolen shack Because of the fears of fire and loss That trouble the sleep of lumber folk: Visions of half the world burned black And the sun shrunken yellow in smoke. We know who when they come to town Bring berries under the wagon seat, Or a basket of eggs between their feet; What this man brought in a cotton sack Was gum, the gum of the mountain spruce. He showed me lumps of the scented stuff Like uncut jewels, dull and rough. It comes to market golden brown; But turns to pink between the teeth.
I told him this is a pleasant life To set your breast to the bark of trees That all your days are dim beneath, And reaching up with a little knife, To loose the resin and take it down And bring it to market when you please.