OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Lines written in early spring

XII.
LINES
WRITTEN IN EARLY SPRING.
I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.
​The birds around me hopped and played: Their thoughts I cannot measure:— But the least motion which they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.
If I these thoughts may not prevent, If such be of my creed the plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Lines written on a Tablet in a School

XV.
If Nature, for a favourite Child In thee hath tempered so her clay, That every hour thy heart runs wild, Yet never once doth go astray,
Read o'er these lines; and then review This tablet, that thus humbly rears In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years.
—When through this little wreck of fame, Cypher and syllable! thine eye Has travelled down to Matthew's name, Pause with no common sympathy.
​And, if a sleeping tear should wake, Then be it neither checked nor stayed: For Matthew a request I make Which for himself he had not made.
Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, Is silent as a standing pool; Far from the chimney's merry roar, And murmur of the village school.
The sighs which Matthew heaved were sighs Of one tired out with fun and madness; The tears which came to Matthew's eyes Were tears of light, the dew of gladness.
Yet, sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up— He felt with spirit so profound.
—Thou Soul of God's best earthly mould! Thou happy Soul! and can it be That these two words of glittering gold Are all that must remain of thee?
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Lines written upon a stone, &c

INSCRIPTIONS.
I.
Written with a Slate-pencil, upon a Stone, the largest of a Heap lying near a deserted Quarry, upon one of the Islands at Rydale.
Stranger! this hillock of misshapen stones Is not a ruin of the ancient time, Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more Than the rude embryo of a little Dome Or Pleasure-house, once destined to be built Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. But, as it chanced, Sir William having learned That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith Desisted, and the quarry and the mound ​Are monuments of his unfinished task.—— The block on which these lines are traced, perhaps, Was once selected as the corner-stone Of the intended Pile, which would have been Some quaint odd play-thing of elaborate skill, So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, And other little Builders who dwell here, Had wondered at the work. But blame him not, For old Sir William was a gentle Knight Bred in this vale, to which he appertained With all his ancestry. Then peace to him, And for the outrage which he had devised Entire forgiveness!——But if thou art one On fire with thy impatience to become An inmate of these mountains,—if, disturbed By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements Of thy trim mansion destin'd soon to blaze In snow-white splendour,—think again, and, taught By old Sir William and his quarry, leave Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose; There let the vernal Slow-worm sun himself, And let the Red-breast hop from stone to stone.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Lines left upon a Seat, &c

POEMS
PROCEEDING FROM SENTIMENT
AND REFLECTION.
I.
LINES
Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree, which stands near the Lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate Part of the Shore, commanding a beautiful Prospect.
Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb? What if these barren boughs the bee not loves? Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy.
—————————Who he was That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod First covered o'er, and taught this aged Tree With its dark arms to form a circling bower, ​I well remember.—He was one who owned No common soul. In youth by science nursed, And led by nature into a wild scene Of lofty hopes, he to the world went forth A favoured Being, knowing no desire Which Genius did not hallow,—'gainst the taint Of dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate, And scorn,—against all enemies prepared, All but neglect. The world, for so it thought, Owed him no service: wherefore he at once With indignation turned himself away, And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude.—Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit, His only visitants a straggling sheep, The stone-chat, or the sand-lark, restless Bird Piping along the margin of the lake; And on these barren rocks, with juniper, And heath, and thistle, thinly sprinkled o'er, Fixing his down-cast eye, he many an hour A morbid pleasure nourished, tracing here An emblem of his own unfruitful life: And lifting up his head, he then would gaze On the more distant scene,—how lovely 'tis ​Thou seest,—and he would gaze till it became Far lovelier, and his heart could not sustain The beauty still more beauteous. Nor, that time, When Nature had subdued him to herself, Would he forget those beings, to whose minds, Warm from the labours of benevolence, The world, and man himself, appeared a scene Of kindred loveliness: then he would sigh With mournful joy, to think that others felt What he must never feel: and so, lost Man! On visionary views would fancy feed, Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep vale He died,—this seat his only monument.
If Thou be one whose heart the holy forms Of young imagination have kept pure, Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know, that pride, Howe'er disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness; that he who feels contempt For any living thing, hath faculties Which he has never used; that thought with him Is in its infancy. The man whose eye Is ever on himself doth look on one, The least of Nature's works, one who might move ​The wise man to that scorn which wisdom holds Unlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou! Instructed that true knowledge leads to love, True dignity abides with him alone Who, in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still suspect, and still revere himself, In lowliness of heart.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Lines written at a small distance from my House, &c

X.
LINES
Written at a small Distance from my House, and sent by my little Boy to the Person to whom they are addressed.
It is the first mild day of March: Each minute sweeter than before, The Red-breast sings from the tall Larch That stands beside our door.
There is a blessing in the air, Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field.
My Sister! ('tis a wish of mine) Now that our morning meal is done, Make haste, your morning task resign; Come forth and feel the sun.
​Edward will come with you; and pray, Put on with speed your woodland dress; And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.
No joyless forms shall regulate Our living Calendar: We from to-day, my Friend, will date The opening of the year.
Love, now an universal birth, From heart to heart is stealing, From earth to man, from man to earth: —It is the hour of feeling.
One moment now may give us more Than fifty years of reason: Our minds shall drink at every pore The spirit of the season.
Some silent laws our hearts may make, Which they shall long obey: We for the year to come may take Our temper from to-day.
​And from the blessed power that rolls About, below, above, We'll frame the measure of our souls: They shall be tuned to love.
Then come, my Sister! come, I pray, With speed put on your woodland dress; —And bring no book: for this one day We'll give to idleness.
# Poems for the Sea/To a Retired Seaman

TO A RETIRED SEAMAN.
How pleasant, when the toils of life,  And ruder cares have pass'd away, To turn from troubled floods and gain  The shelter of some quiet bay,
And there refit the shatter'd sails  That time and chance have sorely tried, And meditate, as peaceful years  Glide on, to meet the eternal tide.
Tis thus with thee, whose course hath been  O'er many a sea and many a shore, Where battle thunders shook the main  Or winds and waves in conflict roar.
But now, thy cheerful hearth beside  Thy happier lot it is to see Domestic comfort flourish fair,  And yield its cherish'd fruits to thee.
Forget not, on thy varied chart  To write His name, who rules thy days, And from remember'd woes to rear  A lasting monument of praise.
Son of the Sea! thy glorious choice  Is by thy Saviour's Cross to cling, So mayst thou in his glory share, And mid yon skies, no cloud that wear,  The anthem of salvation sing.
# Poems for the Sea/Tom Hardy

TOM HARDY.
Tom Hardy was an honest lad,
His pleasant face made others glad,
 Like suns that cloudless shine;
Aloft he ran with right good will,
The topsail reefed with ready skill,
 And snugly clewed the line.
Obedient still at every call,
And friendly to his messmates all,
 For others' pain he felt;
And ever neatest of the crew,
On Sundays, in his jacket blue,
 At morning prayers he knelt.
No draught he took to cheer his mind,
The temperance pledge he early signed,
 Nor from that promise roved;
In every duty free from blame,
Blow high, blow low, 'twas all the same,
 Still happy, and beloved.
But once, upon a sultry shore
The burning fever smote him sore,
 And when he shipped again,
Still to this sad disease a prey,
He wasted like the snows away,
 And all our care was vain.
So with weak hand, he took the key
From out his chest and gave it me;
 "This to my mother take,
My little all, to her I leave,
And tell her not too much to grieve,
 For her lost sea-boy's sake.
Here is the Bible that she gave,
It was my compass o'er the wave
 When prosperous skies were fair;
And now, when darksome billows roll,
It is the anchor of my soul,
 That drives away despair.
Cut from my temples, when I'm dead
One of these curling locks, he said,
 And bear to Mary dear,
Tell her, I lov'd her till the last,
But ah! my breath is failing fast,
 The stroke of death is near.
Yet, now, my peace with God is made,
So, not of the last foe afraid,
 I dare a watery grave,
For in yon skies, with pierced hand
I see the blest Redeemer stand
 My parting soul to save."
Bright rose the morn, but cold as lead
Lay poor Tom Hardy, pale and dead;
Though yet a smile of joy
Sate on his face, while sad and true
The roughest tar amid the crew
 Mourned for the sailor-boy.
Now, sometimes while my watch I keep
At lonely midnight, on the deep,
 When all is calm and clear,
I seem to hear his well known voice,
"Oh, messmate, make your God your choice.
 And to His haven steer."
# Poems for the Sea/What could they do without us?

WHAT COULD THEY DO WITHOUT US?
They say that we, who rule the sea,
 Or chase the whales and spear them,
Spin out our yarns so coarse and long
 They can't endure to hear them,
And when we take a turn on shore,
 They laugh, we understand,
To see us rolling through the streets
 Like porpoise on the land.
But Jack might louder laugh, we guess,
 Except he's too polite,
To see those lubbers climb the shrouds
 On a dark and stormy night,
Or try with gloved and lily hands
 To furl the stiffened sails,
When through a mist of sleet and snow
 Old Boreas blows his gales.
How would the world's hard work go on,
 If we who plough the main,
Should hold umbrellas o'er our heads
 At every squall of rain?
  Or slink away when Neptune frowns,
 And breakers roar in scorn,
Or fear to bide the buffet rude
 From the fist of old Cape Horn.
So, do us justice, landsmen all,
 Even though you seem to flout us,
For if our lingo sounds so strange,
 What could you do without us?
The merchant in his warehouse proud
 Whould wait awhile we trow,
Before to sell his cotton bales
 He'd rig a boat and row,
And how would all his ladies fret,
 For eastern toys and teas,
Unless our sails we sharply set
 Across the Indian seas?
The farmer toils to plant his corn,
 And then to hill and hoe it,
An honest-hearted man is he,
 His sun-burnt features show it,
Yet when he takes his grain to town,
 With loads of golden cheese,
And buys those notions from the shops
 His womankind that please,
Do any of them ever think
 What blasts the seamen bore,
To bring their mace and nutmegs home
 From a far tropic shore?
Blow high, blow low, 'tis all the same,
 Hot suns or wintry weather,
For with our sailor's knot we bind
 Earth's utmost coasts together:
Then do us justice, landsmen dear,
 For where's the need to doubt us?
Since in your inmost hearts you know
 You cannot do without us.
# Poems in Prose

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
* The Artist
* The Doer of Good
* The Disciple
* The Master
* The House of Judgement
* The Teacher of Wisdom
# Poems in Prose/The Doer of Good

It was night-time and He was alone.
And He saw afar-off the walls of a round city and went towards the city.
And when He came near He heard within the city the tread of the feet of joy, and the laughter of the mouth of gladness and the loud noise of many lutes. And He knocked at the gate and certain of the gatekeepers opened to Him.
And He beheld a house that was of marble and had fair pillars of marble before it. The pillars were hung with garlands, and within and without there were torches of cedar. And He entered the house.
And when He had passed through the hall of chalcedony and the hall of jasper, and reached the long hall of feasting, He saw lying on a couch of sea-purple one whose hair was crowned with red roses and whose lips were red with wine.
And He went behind him and touched him on the shoulder and said to him, `Why do you live like this?'
And the young man turned round and recognised Him, and made answer and said, `But I was a leper once, and you healed me. How else should I live?'
And He passed out of the house and went again into the street.
And after a little while He saw one whose face and raiment were painted and whose feet were shod with pearls. And behind her came, slowly as a hunter, a young man who wore a cloak of two colours. Now the face of the woman was as the fair face of an idol, and the eyes of the young man were bright with lust.
And He followed swiftly and touched the hand of the young man and said to him, `Why do you look at this woman and in such wise?'
And the young man turned round and recognised Him and said, `But I was blind once, and you gave me sight. At what else should I look?'
And He ran forward and touched the painted raiment of the woman and said to her, `Is there no other way in which to walk save the way of sin?'
And the woman turned round and recognised Him, and laughed and said, `But you forgave me my sins, and the way is a pleasant way.'
And He passed out of the city.
And when He had passed out of the city He saw seated by the roadside a young man who was weeping.
And He went towards him and touched the long locks of his hair and said to him, `Why are you weeping?'
And the young man looked up and recognised Him and made answer, `But I was dead once and you raised me from the dead. What else should I do but weep?'
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 for the Sea/Thoughts in Sickness

THOUGHTS IN SICKNESS.
Oh Thou, whose healing touch
 So oft the sick did save,
When thou didst dwell with men below,
 And meet affliction's wave,
In weakness and in woe,
 I bow my drooping head,
Give thou thy pitying angels charge
 To watch my lonely bed.
Far from a mother's love,
 Far from a sister's care
I lift my waiting eyes to Thee,
 Regard my lonely prayer.
Be near me, while the hours
 Oppress'd with suffering, roll,
And make each pain a teacher, Lord,
 To my repentant soul.
Should vigorous health once more
 Reanimate my frame,
Inspire me with a purer zeal
 To glorify Thy name,
To keep thy just commands,
 My humbled heart incline,
And grant that both in life and death
 Thy holy will be mine.
# Poems for the Sea/To the Ocean

TO THE OCEAN
Ah! let me be thy pupil, mighty Deep!
Yet speak thou gently to me, for I fear
Thy voice of terror, nor desire to learn
Those lessons that do make the mariner
Shrink in his dreams.
My Mother Earth imparts
An easier lore. She talketh of her sons.
Her level'd mountains, and her corn-clad vales,
Town, tower, and temple, and triumphal arch,
All speak of man, and moulder while they speak.
But, of whose architecture, and design,
Tell thine eternal fountains, when they rise
To combat with the clouds, or when they fall?
Of whose strong culture, speak thy sunless plants?
And groves of coral, which no mortal guest
Hath visited, and liv'd?
What sculptor wrought
These monuments of amber, and of pearl,
Where sleeps the sea-boy, in a pomp, that earth
Denies her buried kings?
Who strangely stretch'd
A line of sand to curb thy monstrous tide,
And writing "Hitherto!"—bade the mad surge
Respect the silent mandate?
From whose loom
Came forth thy drapery, that ne'er waxeth old?
No fallen leaf, or withering floweret marks
Thy sere decadence of autumnal time.
Who hath thy keys, Oh Deep? Who taketh note
Of all thy wealth? Who numbereth the host
That spread their tent amid thy cells, and sleep
Unwaken'd, unreturning? Who doth scan
The secret annal, from Creation lock'd
In thy dark cabinet?
Still, one reply!
Each breaking billow speaks that One Dread Name
Which he, who deepest graves within his heart
Is wisest, though the world may call him fool.
Therefore, I bend to thy resounding tides,
And list the echo of thy countless waves,
A lone disciple,—if perchance, my soul
That poor shell-gatherer, on the shores of time,
May by thy lore instructed, learn of God.
# Poems in Prose/The Artist

One evening there came into his soul the desire to fashion an image of The Pleasure that Abideth for a Moment. And he went forth into the world to look for bronze. For he could think only in bronze.
But all the bronze of the whole world had disappeared, nor anywhere in the whole world was there any bronze to be found, save only the bronze of the image of The Sorrow that Endureth For Ever.
Now this image he had himself, and with his own hands, fashioned, and had set it on the tomb of the one thing he had loved in life. On the tomb of the dead thing he had most loved had he set this image of his own fashioning, that it might serve as a sign of the love of man that dieth not, and a symbol of the sorrow of man that endureth for ever. And in the whole world there was no other bronze save the bronze of this image.
And he took the image he had fashioned, and set it in a great furnace, and gave it to the fire.
And out of the bronze of the image of The Sorrow that Endureth For Ever he fashioned an image of The Pleasure that Abideth for a Moment.
Poems in prose, 1894.
# Poems in Prose/The Disciple

When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping through the woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it comfort.
And when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of their hair and cried to the pool and said, `We do not wonder that you should mourn in this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was he.'
`But was Narcissus beautiful?' said the pool.
`Who should know that better than you?' answered the Oreads. `Us did he ever pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your banks and look down at you, and in the mirror of your waters he would mirror his own beauty.'
And the pool answered, `But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own beauty mirrored.'
# Poet Lore/Volume 34

Layout 4
WORLD LITERATURE AND THE DRAMA
EDITED BY
CHARLOTTE PORTER—HELEN A. CLARKE RUTH HILL
VOLUME XXXIV
JANUARY—DECEMBER, 1923
RICHARD G. BADGER THE POET LORE COMPANY BOSTON MCMXXIII
Spring number Summer number Autumn number Winter number
INDEX TO VOLUME XXXIV
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
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
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Changes

CHANGES.
By time’s a-brought the mornèn light,  By time the light do weäne; By time’s a-brought the young man’s might,  By time his might do weäne; The Winter snow do whitèn grass, The zummer flow’rs do brightèn grass, Vor zome things we do lose wi’ païn, We’ve mwore that mid be jaÿ to gaïn, An’ my dear life do seem the seäme  While at my zide  There still do bide Your welcome feäce an’ hwomely neäme.
Wi’ ev’ry day that woonce come on  I had to choose a jaÿ, Wi’ many that be since a-gone  I had to lose a jaÿ. Drough longsome years a-wanderèn, Drough lwonesome rest a-ponderèn, Woone peaceful daytime wer a-bro’t To heal the heart another smote; But my dear life do seem the seäme  While I can hear,  A-soundèn near, Your answ’rèn vaïce an’ long-call’d neäme.
An’ oh! that hope, when life do dawn,  Should rise to light our waÿ, An’ then, wi’ weänèn het withdrawn,  Should soon benight our waÿ. Whatever mid beval me still, Wherever chance mid call me still, ​Though leäte my evenèn tweil mid cease, An’ though my night mid lose its peäce, My life will seem to me the seäme  While you do sheäre  My daily ceäre, An’ answer to your long-call’d neäme.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Blackmwore Maïdens

Set to music by Ralph Vaughan Williams as “Blackmwore by the Stour”
BLACKMWORE MAIDENS.
The primrwose in the sheäde do blow, The cowslip in the zun, The thyme upon the down do grow, The clote where streams do run; An’ where do pretty maïdens grow An’ blow, but where the tow’r Do rise among the bricken tuns, In Blackmwore by the Stour.
If you could zee their comely gaït, An’ pretty feäces’ smiles, A-trippèn on so light o’ waïght, An’ steppèn off the stiles; A-gwaïn to church, as bells do swing An’ ring ’ithin the tow’r, You’d own the pretty maidens’ pleäce Is Blackmwore by the Stour.
If you vrom Wimborne took your road, To Stower or Paladore, An’ all the farmers’ housen show’d Their daughters at the door; You’d cry to bachelors at hwome— “Here, come: ’ithin an hour You’ll vind ten maïdens to your mind, In Blackmwore by the Stour.”
An’ if you look’d ’ithin their door, To zee em in their pleäce, ​A-doèn housework up avore Their smilèn mother’s feäce; You’d cry—“Why, if a man would wive An’ thrive, ’ithout a dow’r, Then let en look en out a wife In Blackmwore by the Stour.”
As I upon my road did pass A school-house back in Maÿ, There out upon the beäten grass Wer maïdens at their plaÿ; An’ as the pretty souls did tweil An’ smile, I cried, “The flow’r O’ beauty, then, is still in bud In Blackmwore by the Stour.”