OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/I am like one that has sat alone

I AM LIKE ONE THAT HAS SAT ALONE—1871
The influence of Heine—an influence we have previously had occasion to comment upon—is again evident in these verses written at Swanston, where the poet likens the rearising of hopeful life after a period of dejection to a glorious sunset after a day of storm and gloom.
I AM LIKE ONE THAT HAS SAT ALONE
I am like one that has sat alone All day on a level plain, With drooping head and trailing arms In a ceaseless pour of rain—
With drooping head and nerveless arms On the moorland flat and gray, Till the clouds were severed suddenly About the end of day;
And the purple fringes of the rain Rose o'er the scarlet west, And the birds sang in the soddened furze, And my heart sang in my breast.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/I look across the ocean

I LOOK ACROSS THE OCEAN
(DATE UNCERTAIN)
The following verses show a poem not altogether complete, although it seems that another two lines might have rounded it out. In any case, it is unique among the manuscripts of Stevenson, in that it is addressed to America. It is written in a spirit of great faith in the future of our country and exhibits an almost mystic tensity in the hope it cherishes for what America shall achieve.
I LOOK ACROSS THE OCEAN
I look across the ocean, And kneel upon the shore, I look out seaward—westward, My heart swells more and more.
I see the great new nation, New spirit and new scope Rise there from the sea's round shoulder,— A splendid sun of hope!
I see it and I tremble— My voice is full of tears— America tread softly, You bear the fruit of years.
​Tread softly—you are pregnant And growing near your time— [Manuscript breaks off here]
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/I sit up here at midnight

I SIT UP HERE AT MIDNIGHT
1871-1872
Here again, were it not for the word "Inchcape"' in the third stanza, we should at first glance feel almost convinced that the present verses are a translation from Heine, so closely both in style and in spirit does the Scottish poet follow the German master. "Inch," meaning an island, is so unmistakably an index of Scottish local nomenclature that it saves us the trouble of going through the works of Heine to find the supposed original; but we can never come upon a more convincing evidence of the intensity of Stevenson's study of the great German lyrist. The metre is the one that Heine most used; the simplicity of the sentences is in his vein, only one simile in the first stanza and one metaphor in the fifth interrupting the sheer directness of description. And if this were truly a Stevenson poem, and not a Heine-Stevenson poem, the subject would be treated in a more personal manner, and would lack the dramatic objectivity which is so often a striking element in Heine's poems of this nature. Then, at the ​end, how altogether Heine the closing line, "The foolish fisher woman!" Stevenson never would have thought of calling her that, unless he were unconsciously writing with Heine's mind. After picturing two scenes—the skipper husband in the storm, and the terrified wife at home—after arousing our sympathy for a loving woman in anguish, Heine alone, of all poets it would seem, would have ironically inwoven the note of tenderness in the "foolish fisherwoman," mocking himself and his own experiences, in thus regarding, with a wry smile of ridiculing pity, the misery of human love.
I SIT UP HERE AT MIDNIGHT
I sit up here at midnight, The wind is in the street, The rain besieges the windows Like the sound of many feet.
I see the street lamps flicker, I see them wink and fail; The streets are wet and empty, It blows an easterly gale.
​Some think of the fisher skipper Beyond the Inchcape stone; But I of the fisher woman That lies at home alone.
She raises herself on her elbow And watches the firelit floor; Her eyes are bright with terror, Her heart beats fast and sore.
Between the roar of the flurries, When the tempest holds its breath, She holds her breathing also— It is all as still as death.
She can hear the cinders dropping, The cat that purrs in its sleep— The foolish fisher woman! Her heart is on the deep.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/If I could arise and travel away

IF I COULD ARISE AND TRAVEL AWAY—(1880?)
In the previous two volumes of Stevenson poems issued by The Bibliophile Society, there was occasion to remark on the coincidence in metre (and a very unusual metre) in Stevenson's poem beginning "I Who All the Winter Through" and in Kipling's "Mandalay." The superlative advantage of Kipling's famous verses lies, of course, in the fact that Mandalay is a place where "there ain't no ten commandments, and a man can raise a thirst." Curiously enough, in the present poem, again antedating Kipling's, Stevenson longs for a land where all men can drink with "perfect zest," and where "we're done with the ten commandments." No charge of plagiarism, however remote, is imputed to Kipling; but the coincidence is certainly interesting. As to the date of the poem, here tentatively suggested as 1880, one cannot be sure; but the handwriting and context seem to point to the Californian days.
IF I COULD ARISE AND TRAVEL AWAY
If I could arise and travel away Over the plains of the night and the day, I should arrive at a land at last Where all of our sins and sorrows are past And we're done with the Ten Commandments.
The name of the land I must not tell; Green is the grass and cool the well: Virtue is easy to find and to keep, And the sinner may lie at his pleasure and sleep By the side of the Ten Commandments.
Income and honor, and glory and gold Grow on the bushes all over the wold; And if ever a man has a touch of remorse, He eats of the flower of the golden gorse, And to hell with the Ten Commandments.
He goes to church in his Sunday's best; He eats and drinks with perfect zest; And whether he lives in heaven or hell Is more than you or I can tell; But he's done with the Ten Commandments.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Light as my heart was long ago

LIGHT AS MY HEART WAS LONG AGO—1875
The same form shown in the verses beginning, "In Autumn When the Woods are Red," is followed here in a poem that comes close to the spirit of some of François Villon's lyrics. Stevenson's story, "A Lodging for the Night," based on Villon's life, and his essay on that inspired and interesting reprobate, are among his most sympathetic works in the fields of the short story and of criticism. And it is curious to reflect that while Thoreau, the ascetic New Englander, was the American to whom Stevenson most instinctively reacted, the licentious Villon was, we fancy, his favorite hero in French literature.
But an even more interesting thought that arises from the present verses and from those that belong to their little group of the year 1875, is that just as Stevenson's apprenticeship as a man of letters in Scotland began with attempts at verse writing, so similarly when, on the continent, he sought to improve his workmanship by the study of French forms, it was to poetry that he first turned, and in poetry that he continued his training.
LIGHT AS MY HEART WAS LONG AGO
Light as my heart was long ago, Now it is heavy enough; Now that the weather is rough, Now that the loud winds come and go, Winter is here with hail and snow, Winter is sorry and gruff. Light as last year's snow, Where is my love? I do not know; Life is a pitiful stuff, Out with it—out with the snuff! This is the sum of all I know, Light as my heart was long ago.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/In autumn when the woods are red

IN AUTUMN WHEN THE WOODS ARE RED—1875
The romantic attachment which runs through so much of his verse in the early seventies was not much more than a sentimental memory for Stevenson, when, in 1875, in the company of Walter Simpson he was spending some weeks in France. While early joys are referred to as gone, "A touch of April not yet dead," followed by the picture of Cupid hunting, shows Stevenson's thoughts turning towards past days in Edinburgh. Yet less on the personal side, than as an attempt at French forms of verse, is this poem deserving of special comment. Those days in France, when Stevenson first came into close contact with French authors, ancient and modern, left their valuable impress on his style. English and Scotch literature he already knew well, and he had sat at the feet of the German masters, Goethe and Heine; but not until the date of this poem was his interest marked in French form, and to this continuing interest and expanding study is doubtless due, to no small extent, Stevenson's stylistic development.
IN AUTUMN WHEN THE WOODS ARE RED
In autumn when the woods are red And skies are gray and clear, The sportsmen seek the wild fowls' bed Or follow down the deer; And Cupid hunts by haugh and head, By riverside and mere. I walk, not seeing where I tread And keep my heart with fear. Sir, have an eye, on where you tread And keep your heart with fear, For something lingers here; A touch of April not yet dead, In Autumn when the woods are red And skies are gray and clear.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/Last night we had a thunderstorm, etc.

LAST NIGHT WE HAD A THUNDERSTORM IN STYLE—1875
This draft of a rondeau written in France in the summer of 1875, seems to be the only one of Stevenson's poems where he patently attempts to incorporate into his verses the spirit of Voltaire. The conception of the thunder as the voice of God is an old one, and the thunderbolts of Jove echo through Greek and Roman literature; but it has remained for Stevenson, in ironic mood, lying in bed "with a Voltairean smile," and while others are praying—to think of the thunder as the noise made by God falling down a flight of stairs. It is the most daring bit of ridiculous imagery in all his writings, and however greatly some may be shocked thereby, its success can hardly be questioned in view of its attainment of its object—the smile that it almost inevitably arouses.
LAST NIGHT WE HAD A THUNDERSTORM IN STYLE
Last night we had a thunderstorm in style. The wild lightning streaked the airs, As though my God fell down a pair of stairs. The thunder boomed and bounded all the while; All cried and sat by waterside and stile,— To mop our brow had been our chief of cares. I lay in bed with a Voltairean smile, The terror of good, simple guilty pairs, And made this rondeau in ironic style. Last night we had a thunderstorm in style.
Our God the Father fell down stairs, The stark blue lightning went its flight the while, The very rain you might have heard a mile,— The strenuous faithful buckled to their prayers.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/I have a friend; I have a story

I HAVE A FRIEND; I HAVE A STORY
(1872?)
While Stevenson's remarkable poem beginning "God Gave to Me a Child In Part" first published in the Bibliophile edition, was placed in the section entitled "Poems of Uncertain Date," the suggestion was made that it belonged to the early seventies. It was during that same period (presumably 1872, though possibly 1871) that the present kindred poem was doubtless written. The internal evidence is too strong for any other assumption, since there was apparently only one woman in Stevenson's life who, although he was devoted to her, might yet have had reason to hate him. We know her merely as "Claire," the name inscribed marginally by Stevenson on the manuscript of "Swallows Travel To and Fro,"—verses which in 1873 were composed with her in mind. She was the Edinburgh girl who was in all probability the prospective mother of that unborn child lamented by Stevenson in the poem, "God Gave To Me a Child in Part," referred to above. The depth of his affection for ​her is shown in many of his early lyrics; but when (we must believe because of parental objection), he was forced to break with this girl whose status and antecedents may have justified his family's opposition, and when in 1872 he was sent by his parents to the continent, her love may well have changed to the hatred prophesied in the closing lines of the following verses.
Analyzing the poem from the point of view here taken we are confronted in the first stanza with a quarrel between the lovers. It is barely possible that a misunderstanding, due to some cause no longer ascertainable, led to the break in relations; but far more probably the approaching separation was the cause of a scene in which Stevenson was upbraided and misjudged. The second stanza leads to the surmise that although agreeing to a temporary separation. Stevenson had promised loyalty to the girl if she would remain true to him. In the third stanza, with the passionate expression of his love for her, appears one of those sentences that belong only to his early days—even then very rarely, for later in life he never attributed the ​baffling cruelty of existence to God. The phrase he used is that of a desperate mood; and how little hope he had of regaining the affection of his beloved is set forth in the last line of the closing stanza where he says, "A while, and she will only hate."
I HAVE A FRIEND; I HAVE A STORY
I have a friend; I have a story; I have a life that's hard to live; I love; my love is all my glory; I have been hurt and I forgive.
I have a friend; none could be better; I stake my heart upon my friend! I love; I trust her to the letter; Will she deceive me in the end?
She is my love, my life, my jewel; My hope, my star, my dear delight. God! but the ways of God are cruel,— That love should bow the knee to spite!
She loves, she hates,—a foul alliance! One King shall rule in one estate. I only love; 'tis all my science; A while, and she will only hate.
# Poems, by Robert Louis Stevenson, hitherto unpublished/I saw red evening through the rain

I SAW RED EVENING THROUGH THE RAIN—1875
This Edinburgh poem of the year 1875 is another of an unhappy mood, when even the memory of delight has in it a bitter touch. The verses are an original draft, showing the writer groping after the finished form, and thus the second and fourth stanzas should be regarded as varying attempts to phrase the same emotion, rather than as separate finished stanzas of a completed poem.
In the final verse we have again, in the phrase, "the forward way," an indication of Stevenson's characteristic insistence upon the value, however difficult the circumstances of the moment, of continuing towards the goal.
I SAW RED EVENING THROUGH THE RAIN
I saw red evening through the rain Lower above the steaming plain; I heard the hour strike small and still, From the black belfry on the hill.
Thought is driven out of doors tonight By bitter memory of delight; ​The sharp constraint of finger tips, Or the shuddering touch of lips.
I heard the hour strike small and still, From the black belfry on the hill. Behind me I could still look down On the outspread monstrous town.
The sharp constraint of finger tips, Or the shuddering touch of lips, And all old memories of delight Crowd upon my soul tonight.
Behind me I could still look down On the outspread feverish town; But before me, still and grey, And lonely was the forward way.
# Pocket Veto Case

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
The Pocket Veto Case (also known as Bands of the State of Washington v. United States and Okanogan, Methow, San Poelis, Nespelem, Colville, and Lake Indian Tribes v. US) 279 U.S. 655 (1929) was a 1929 United States Supreme Court decision which interpreted the Constitutional provisions regarding the pocket veto. Warning: template has been deprecated.
United States Supreme Court
279 U.S. 655
Pocket Veto Case
Argued: March 11, 1929. --- Decided: May 27, 1929
[Syllabus from pages 655-657 intentionally omitted]
Messrs. Wm. S. Lewis, of Spokane, Wash., and A. L. Servan and John G. Carter, both of Washington, D. C., for petitioners.

## Notes

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
# Pocket Manual of Rules of Order for Deliberative Assemblies/Part 2

Layout 2
Chicago: S. C. Griggs and Company, page 119
PART II.
ORGANIZATION AND CONDUCT OF BUSINESS.
Footnotes
# Pocket Manual of Rules of Order for Deliberative Assemblies/Part 1

Layout 2
Chicago: S. C. Griggs and Company, page 21
PART I.
RULES OF ORDER.
Footnotes
# Poems (Commelin)

POEMS
by
ANNA OLCOTT COMMELIN
NEW YORK
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY
38 west twenty-third street
1888
POEMS
by
ANNA OLCOTT COMMELIN
"Have I done worthy work? be Love's the praise."
NEW YORK
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH & COMPANY
38 WEST TWENTY-THIRD ST.
1888
COPYRIGHT, 1888, BY
ANNA OLCOTT COMMELIN.
PRESS OF EDWARD O, JENKINS' SONS, NEW YORK.
TO
THE BEAUTIFUL MEMORY
OF
ONE WHO GAVE LOVING APPRECIATION AND KINDLY CRITICISM,
This Little Book
IS DEDICATED.
CONTENTS.
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
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Rise Up! Rise Up, Crusaders!

RISE UP! RISE UP, CRUSADERS!
By permission of the author
Never in all the scarlet past Since God first placed the suns, Not when the Goths drank deep of blood, And women feared the Huns, Not when the hordes of Attila Made toys of flame and shame, Came call so clear For them to hear Who'd fight in Freedom's name.
Rise up! rise up, crusaders, to meet the hosts of Hell! They prate of Art and Science but they give us shot and shell; They call on God, blaspheming, as they plunge their hands in gore; They've butchered millions, millions, and they'd butcher millions more.
What hold they dear who dare the race To meet the might they wield? The smile upon a baby's face? The maid who would not yield? The faith that men and nations keep When sacred vows are made? Why, then, should Europe's women weep? Why preach we our crusade?
​Rise up! rise up, ye stalwart, to save a world from woe! The Hun is growing boastful. We must give him blow for blow. Where Goths and Vandals wake again From sleep that's ages long There's madness in the souls of men, And murder in their song. They are not men as men are known To human hearts alone, Their music is a woman's wail, Or dying hero's groan. They crave a world's dominion, And they come, a wanton flood, To drown the hope that God gives man In seas of human blood.
Rise up! rise up, crusaders! Send forth a clarion cry! The race shall not be slaves to Huns Though you and I must die. A world at war? A billion men who arm and fight and slay? What are our blaring bugles for? Is Man insane to-day?
Not we to whom the call has come, Not we, the unafraid, Now arming, God be with us, for the last, the great Crusade; ​Nor they who fight our fight with us, Across the surging sea, Where men are facing madmen That all peoples may be free.
—Edward Van Zile
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Salutatory

SALUTATORY
Our honor 'tis who stay behind— Soldiers of France's glory— To hail with strengthening words and kind The men that march the foe to find, And rout him from our hallowed soil That groans with pain of his despoil— His menace gory.
Our honor 'tis to hold you dear, War-men of skill and soul; The old, the young, alike revere— Men faring forth who smile at fear, While earth itself returns with dread The echo of their martial tread Toward triumph's goal.
Our honor 'tis to nurse you well— Soldiers of newer glory— To bind your wounds and soothe your brow, Who little dreamed to add as now By faith and nerve the valorous meed Of high, unselfish, mighty deed To France's story.
Our honor 'tis to give our tears— Soldiers that lie at rest! ​Smiles we give, too, and cheering glance With farewell kiss, while saddened France To men asleep in reddened fields The peace unending gently yields Of Heaven's blest.
—Angele Maraval-Berthoin
# Patriotic pieces from the Great War/Rheims

RHEIMS
It was a people's church—stout, plain folk they, Wanting their own cathedral, not the king's, Nor prelate's, nor great noble's. On the walls, On porch and arch and doorway—see—the saints Have the plain people's faces. That sweet Virgin Was young Marie, who lived around the corner, And whom the sculptor knew. From time to time He saw her at her work or with her babe, So gay, so dainty, smiling at the child. That sturdy Peter—Peter of the keys— He was old Jean, the Breton fisherman, Who, somehow, made his way here from the coast And lived here many years, yet kept withal The look of the great sea and his great nets. And John there, the beloved, was Etienne, And good Saint James was François—brothers they, And had a small, clean bakeshop, where they sold Bread, cakes, and little pies. Well, so it went! ​These were not Italy's saints, nor yet the gods, Majestic, calm, unmoved, of ancient Greece. No, they were only townsfolk, common people, And graced a common church—that stood and stood Through war and fire and pestilence, through ravage Of time and kings and conquerors, till at last The century dawned which promised common men The things they long had hoped for! O the time Showed a fair face, was daughter of great Demos, Flamboyant, bore a light, laughed loud and free, And feared not any man—until—until— There sprang a mailed figure from a throne, Gorgeous, imperial, glowing—a monstrosity Magnificent as death and as death terrible. It walked these aisles and saw the humble ones, Peter, the fisherman, James and John the shopkeepers, And Mary, sweet, gay, innocent and poor. Loud did it laugh and long. "These peaceful folk! What place have they in my great armed world?" ​Then with its thunderbolts of fire it drove These saints from out their places—breaking roof, Wall, window, portal—and the great grave arch Smoked with the awful funeral smoke of doom.
Thus died they and their church—but from the wreck Of fire and smoke and broken wood and stone There rose a figure greater far than they— Their Lord who dwells within no house of hands; Whose beauty hath no need of any form! Out from the fire he passed, and round him went Marie and Jean, and Etienne and François, And they went singing, singing, through their France— And Italy—and England—and the world!
—Margaret Steele Anderson