OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/Sonnet—To Science

SONNET—TO SCIENCE
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art! Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes. Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart, Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise, Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies, Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood, The Elfin from the green grass, and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/Silence

SILENCE.
There are some qualities—some incorporate things, That have a double life, which thus is made A type of that twin entity which springs From matter and light, evinced in solid and shade. There is a two-fold Silence—sea and shore— Body and soul. One dwells in lonely places, Newly with grass o'ergrown; some solemn graces, Some human memories and tearful lore, Render him terrorless: his name's "No More." He is the corporate Silence: dread him not! No power hath he of evil in himself; But should some urgent fate (untimely lot!) Bring thee to meet his shadow (nameless elf, That haunteth the lone regions where hath trod No foot of man,) commend thyself to God!
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/The City in the Sea

THE CITY IN THE SEA.
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers that tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy heaven come down On the long night-time of that town; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently— Gleams up the pinnacles far and free— Up domes—up spires—up kingly halls— Up fanes—up Babylon-like walls— Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers— Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathéd friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the vine. ​Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idol's diamond eye— Not the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass— No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea— No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave—there is a movement there! As if the towers had thrust aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide— As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy Heaven. The waves have now a redder glow— The hours are breathing faint and low— And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones  Shall do it reverence.
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/The Coliseum

THE COLISEUM.
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length—at length—after so many days Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an altered and an humble man, Amid thy shadows, and so drink within My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld! Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night! I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength— O spells more sure than e'er Judæan king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane! O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled, Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home, ​Lit by the wan light of the hornéd moon, The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades— These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts— These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze— These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin— These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all— All of the famed, and the colossal left By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
"Not all"—the Echoes answer me—"not all! "Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever "From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise, "As melody from Memnon to the Sun. "We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule "With a despotic sway all giant minds. "We are not impotent—we pallid stones. "Not all our power is gone—not all our fame— "Not all the magic of our high renown— "Not all the wonder that encircles us— "Not all the mysteries that in us lie— "Not all the memories that hang upon "And cling around about us as a garment, "Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/The Conqueror Worm

THE CONQUEROR WORM.
Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly— Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Wo!
That motley drama—oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot.
A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And the angels sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued.
Out—out are the lights—out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, And the angels, all pallid, and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/The Haunted Palace

THE HAUNTED PALACE.
In the greenest of our valleys By good angels tenanted, Once a fair and stately palace— Radiant palace—reared its head. In the monarch Thought's dominion— It stood there! Never seraph spread a pinion Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden, On its roof did float and flow, (This—all this—was in the olden Time long ago,) And every gentle air that dallied, In that sweet day, Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, A wingéd odour went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley, Through two luminous windows, saw Spirits moving musically, To a lute's well-tunéd law, Round about a throne where, sitting (Porphyrogene!) In state his glory well befitting, The ruler of the realm was seen.
Was the fair palace door, Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore, A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty Was but to sing, In voices of surpassing beauty, The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow, Assailed the monarch's high estate. (Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow Shall dawn upon him desolate!) And round about his home the glory That blushed and bloomed, Is but a dim-remembered story Of the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley, Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody, While, like a ghastly rapid river, Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh—but smile no more.
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/The Sleeper

THE SLEEPER.
At midnight, in the month of June, I stand beneath the mystic moon. An opiate vapour, dewy, dim, Exhales from out her golden rim, And, softly dripping, drop by drop, Upon the quiet mountain top, Steals drowsily and musically Into the universal valley. The rosemary nods upon the grave; The lily lolls upon the wave; Wrapping the fog about its breast, The ruin moulders into rest; Looking like Lethe, see! the lake A conscious slumber seems to take, And would not, for the world, awake. All Beauty sleeps!—and lo! where lies (Her casement open to the skies) Irene, with her Destinies!
Oh, lady bright! can it be right— This window open to the night? The wanton airs, from the tree-top, Laughingly through the lattice drop— The bodiless airs, a wizard rout, Flit through thy chamber in and out, ​And wave the curtain canopy So fitfully—so fearfully— Above the closed and fringed lid 'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid, That, o'er the floor and down the wall, Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall! Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear? Why and what art thou dreaming here? Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas, A wonder to these garden trees! Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress! Strange, above all, thy length of tress, And this all solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, Which is enduring, so be deep! Heaven have her in its sacred keep! This chamber changed for one more holy, This bed for one more melancholy, I pray to God that she may lie Forever with unopened eye, While the dim sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep As it is lasting, so be deep! Soft may the worms about her creep! Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold— Some vault that oft hath flung its black And winged pannels fluttering back, Triumphant, o'er the crested palls, Of her grand family funerals— Some sepulchre, remote, alone, ​Against whose portal she hath thrown, In childhood, many an idle stone— Some tomb from out whose sounding door She ne'er shall force an echo more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin! It was the dead who groaned within.
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/The Valley of Unrest

THE VALLEY OF UNREST.
Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sun-light lazily lay. Now each visiter shall confess The sad valley's restlessness. Nothing there is motionless— Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Uneasily, from morn till even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye— Over the lilies there that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave:—from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops. They weep:—from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems.
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/To F——s S. O——d

TO F——s S. O——d.
Thou wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart From its present pathway part not! Being everything which now thou art, Be nothing which thou art not. So with the world thy gentle ways, Thy grace, thy more than beauty, Shall be an endless theme of praise, And love—a simple duty.
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/To F——

Published by the Broadway Journal twice in 1845 - once in the April issue then cut down to four lines in the September 6 issue with the more revealing title "To Frances.", referring to Frances S. Osgood. It was actually a re-working of "To M——," first published in the Southern Literary Messenger's July 1835 issue. It was also revised into "To One Departed," printed in Graham's Magazine, March 1842, before it was ever addressed to Frances Osgood.
TO F——.
Beloved! amid the earnest woes That crowd around my earthly path— (Drear path, alas! where grows Not even one lonely rose)— My soul at least a solace hath In dreams of thee, and therein knows An Eden of bland repose.
And thus thy memory is to me Like some enchanted far-off isle In some tumultuous sea— Some ocean throbbing far and free With storms—but where meanwhile Serenest skies continually Just o'er that one bright island smile.
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/To Helen

TO HELEN.
I saw thee once—once only—years ago: I most not say how many—but not many. It was a July midnight; and from out A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring, Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven, There fell a silvery-silken veil of light, With quietude, and sultriness, and slumber, Upon the upturn'd faces of a thousand Roses that grew in an enchanted garden, Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe— Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That gave out, in return for the love-light, Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death— Fell on the upturn'd faces of these roses That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted By thee, and by the poetry of thy presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank I saw thee half reclining; while the moon Fell on the upturn'd faces of the roses, And on thine own, upturn'd—alas, in sorrow!
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight— Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow,) That bade me pause before that garden-gate, To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses! No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept, Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!—oh, God! How my heart beats in coupling those two words!) Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked— And in an instant all things disappeared. (Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
​The pearly lustre of the moon went out: The mossy banks and the meandering paths, The happy flowers and the repining trees, Were seen no more: the very roses' odors Died in the arms of the adoring airs. All—all expired save thee—save less than thou: Save only the divine light in thine eyes— Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes. I saw but them—they were the world to me. I saw but them—saw only them for hours— Saw only them until the moon went down. What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres! How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope! How silently serene a sea of pride! How daring an ambition! yet how deep— How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight, Into a western couch of thunder-cloud; And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees Didst glide way. Only thine eyes remained. They would not go—they never yet have gone. Lighting my lonely pathway home that night, They have not left me (as my hopes have) since. They follow me—they lead me through the years. They are my ministers—yet I their slave. Their office is to illumine and enkindle— My duty, to be saved by their bright light, And purified in their electric fire, And sanctified in their elysian fire. They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,) And are far up in Heaven—the stars I kneel to In the sad, silent watches of my night; While even in the meridian glare of day I see them still—two sweetly scintillant Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/To My Mother

TO MY MOTHER.
Because I feel that, in the Heavens above, The angels, whispering to one another, Can find, among their burning terms of love, None so devotional as that of "Mother," Therefore by that dear name I long have called you— You who are more than mother unto me, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you In setting my Virginia's spirit free. My mother—my own mother, who died early, Was but the mother of myself; but you Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that infinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life.
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/To One in Paradise

TO ONE IN PARADISE.
Thou wast that all to me, love, For which my soul did pine— A green isle in the sea, love, A fountain and a shrine, All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers, And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last! Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out the Future cries, "On! on!"—but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! with me The light of Life is o'er! "No more—no more—no more—" (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy dark eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams— In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams.
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/To Zante

TO ZANTE.
Fair isle, that from the fairest of all flowers, Thy gentlest of all gentle names dost take! How many memories of what radiant hours At sight of thee and thine at once awake! How many scenes of what departed bliss! How many thoughts of what entombéd hopes! How many visions of a maiden that is No more—no more upon thy verdant slopes! No more! alas, that magical sad sound Transforming all! Thy charms shall please no more— Thy memory no more! Accurséd ground Henceforth I hold thy flower-enamelled shore, O hyacinthine isle! O purple Zante! "Isola d'oro! Fior di Levante!"
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/To the River ——

TO THE RIVER ——.
Fair river! in thy bright, clear flow Of crystal, wandering water, Thou art an emblem of the glow Of beauty—the unhidden heart— The playful maziness of art In old Alberto's daughter;
But when within thy wave she looks— Which glistens then, and trembles— Why, then, the prettiest of brooks Her worshipper resembles; For in his heart, as in thy stream, Her image deeply lies— His heart which trembles at the beam Of her soul-searching eyes.
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/To —— (1)

TO ——.
I heed not that my earthly lot Hath—little of Earth in it— That years of love have been forgot In the hatred of a minute:— I mourn not that the desolate Are happier, sweet, than I, But that you sorrow for my fate Who am a passer by.
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/To —— (2)

TO ⸻.
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I see The wantonest singing birds, Are lips—and all thy melody Of lip-begotten words—
Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined Then desolately fall, O God! on my funereal mind Like starlight on a pall—
Thy heart—thy heart!—I wake and sigh And sleep to dream till day Of the truth that gold can never buy— Of the baubles that it may.
# The Works of the Late Edgar Allan Poe (1859)/Volume 2/To —— ——

TO —— ——.
Not long ago, the writer of these lines, In the mad pride of intellectuality, Maintained "the power of words"—denied that ever A thought arose within the human brain Beyond the utterance of the human tongue: And now, as if in mockery of that boast, Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables— Italian tones, made only to be murmured By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew That hangs like chains of pearl on Herman hill,"— Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart, Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought, Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions Than even the seraph harper, Israfel, (Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,") Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken. The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand. With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee, I cannot write—I cannot speak or think— Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling, This standing motionless upon the golden Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams, Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista, And thrilling as I see, upon the right, Upon the left, and all the way along. Amid unpurpled vapors, far away To where the prospect terminates—thee only.
# Pamphlet (Carnegie Endowment for International Peace)/Volume 23

Carnegie Endowment for International Peace
DIVISION OF INTERNATIONAL LAW
Pamphlet No. 23
OFFICIAL COMMUNICATIONS AND SPEECHES RELATING TO PEACE PROPOSALS 1916–1917
PUBLISHED BY THE ENDOWMENT WASHINGTON, D. C. 1917
CONTENTS
PAGE
(not listed in original)
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
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
# Maryland Chapter 247 - 2023RS

* related portals: Maryland General Assembly, Abortion
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, quotes, news, Wikidata item
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This work is in the public domain in the U.S. because it is an edict of a government, local or foreign. See § 313.6(C)(2) of the Compendium II: Copyright Office Practices. Such documents include "legislative enactments, judicial decisions, administrative rulings, public ordinances, or similar types of official legal materials" as well as "any translation prepared by a government employee acting within the course of his or her official duties."
These do not include works of the Organization of American States, United Nations, or any of the UN specialized agencies. See Compendium III § 313.6(C)(2) and 17 U.S.C. 104(b)(5).
A non-American governmental edict may still be copyrighted outside the U.S. Similar to {{PD-in-USGov}}, the above U.S. Copyright Office Practice does not prevent U.S. states or localities from holding copyright abroad, depending on foreign copyright laws and regulations.
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# The Civil War in America (Smith)

THE CIVIL WAR IN AMERICA
GOLDWIN SMITH.
THE CIVIL WAR IN AMERICA:
AN ADDRESS
READ AT THE LAST MEETING OF THE MANCHESTER UNION AND EMANCIPATION SOCIETY.
BY
GOLDWIN SMITH.
LONDON: SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, & CO., STATIONERS' HALL COURT. MANCHESTER: A. IRELAND & CO.
1866.
Contents
This work was published before January 1, 1930, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology/Aristarchus 12.

​ARISTARCHUS (Ἀρίσταρχος) of Tegea, a tragic poet at Athens, was contemporary with Euripides, and flourished about 454 B.C. He lived to the age of a hundred. Out of seventy tragedies which he exhibited, only two obtained the prize. (Suidas, s.v.; Euseb. Chron. Armen.) Nothing remains of his works, except a few lines (Stobaeus, Tit. 63. § 9, tit. 120. § 2; Athen. xiii. p. 612, f.), and the titles of three of his plays, namely, the Ἀσκληπιός, which he is said to have written and named after the god in gratitude for his recovery from illness (Suidas), the Ἀχιλλεύς, which Ennius translated into Latin (Festus, s.v. prolato aere), and the Τάνταλος. (Stobaeus, ii. 1. § 1.)[P. S.]
# Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology/Aristarete

​ARISTARETE, a painter, the daughter and pupil of Nearchus, was celebrated for her picture of Aesculapius. (Plin. xxxv. 40. § 43.)[P. S.]
# Fifty Years & Other Poems/Fifty Years

Fifty Years & Other Poems
Fifty Years & Other Poems
Fifty Years
1863–1913