OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Caroling Dusk/Richard Bruce

RICHARD BRUCE
I was born in Washington, D. C., on the second of July, 1906, and have never ceased to marvel at the fact. After attending public school with very good marks (I was thrashed if I did not lead my class), I attended Dunbar High School of the same city. When I was thirteen my father died, my greatest impression being the crowded church and the vault. Mother left Washington for New York where my brother and I joined her in a few months. New York was an adventure and still is. A glorious something torn from a novel. Even the first hard winter with mother ill and my feet on the ground was just a part of it. My gathering bits of fur to paste on newspaper to cut out for inner soles for my shoes, the walking to work to save carfare, and getting lunch as best I could, all seemed romantic and highly colored. Weren't there theatres and lights, Broadway, Fifth Avenue . . . and lights? Noise and bustle and high silk hats and flowers in pots in the Bowery. Hobble cars creeping like caterpillars up Broadway. Taxis and people and forty-second street. Traffic towers and tall buildings. Wasn't this New York? A year later I discovered Harlem. I was at that time ​an art apprentice at seven fifty a week. But that was too little money. So I became in turn errand boy for ten dollars, bell hop in an all-womens' hotel for eleven fifty-five, eighteen with tips, secretary and confidence man for a modiste for twenty-five, ornamental iron-worker and designer for twenty-eight, and elevator operator for thirty. Then I had the mumps and despite the glamor of New York, I wanted to go, just go somewhere. So I went to Panama working my way. Then New York again and a costume design class. A visit home to D. C. where I met Langston Hughes. Opportunity accepted my first poem. Washington for eleven months then New York again. I arrived penniless and have remained so. Dilatory jobs, trips to New England, Florida, California and Canada, but always New York again. The few drawings and sketches made on these trips were either destroyed, lost, or given away en route. I began to write seriously and to paint just as seriously; I entered contests but never won. I am still penniless and happy and planning to go to Paris and Vienna by hook or crook.
# Caroling Dusk/Shadow

SHADOW
# Shadow

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Shadow"
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "Shadow", a poem by Richard Bruce Nugent
* Shadow, a short story by Edgar Allen Poe
* "Shadow", a poem by Clement Richardson Wood
# Caroling Dusk/Cavalier

CAVALIER
# Cavalier

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Cavalier"
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The Cavalier", a work by George Washington Cable
* "Cavalier", a poem by Richard Bruce Nugent
* The Cavalier, a work by Agnes Repplier
* "Cavalier," in Encyclopædia Britannica (11th ed., 1911)
# Caroling Dusk/Waring Cuney

WARING CUNEY
Waring Cuney was born in Washington, D. C., May 6, 1906. He received his education in the public schools of that city and at Howard University. Later he attended Lincoln University, and while there sang in the Glee Club and the quartet. His work with these groups encouraged him to study music and he is now studying voice at the New England Conservatory of Music in Boston. His first published poem was "No Images" which won first award in the Opportunity contest of 1926. Since then he ​has continued to write and his poems have appeared in Opportunity, Braithwaite's Anthology, The Forum, and Palms.
# Caroling Dusk/The Death Bed

THE DEATH BED
# Caroling Dusk/A Triviality

A TRIVIALITY
# The Death Bed (Cuney)

* "The Death Bed", published in Fire!! (1926)
* "The Death Bed", published in Caroling Dusk (1927)
# Brooklyn Times-Union/1907/Death of Bessie Rhodes

Bessie Rhodes (1884-1907) in the Brooklyn Times-Union on May 28, 1907.
Death of Bessie Rhodes.
Bellport, New York; May 28, 1907. The funeral of pretty Bessie Rhodes, of North Bellport took place today at 2 o'clock, from the M. E. Zion Church on Railroad avenue. The Rev. Mr. Smith, the pastor of the church, preached the funeral service and spoke most feelingly of the dead girl and her terrible death, after a long, painful illness, resulting from a kick from her father, "Bill" Rhodes, when in a drunken frenzy about a year ago. Last January, Dr. Bennett, of Patchogue, sent Bessie to St. Peter's Hospital, Brooklyn, where an abscess was removed from her abdomen, and after her release from the hospital, several months ago, she came back to her home here, where she lay a great sufferer, till death relieved her Bessie was a true Christian and died a Christian death. Many Bellporters took a great interest in the girl and aided her in many ways. The interment took place in Woodland Cemetery yesterday In a drenching rain, amid thunder and lightning.
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
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)

A FEW FIGS FROM THISTLES
By Edna St. Vincent Millay​
* Renascence, and Other Poems
* A Few Figs from Thistles, Poems
* Second April, Poems
* Aria da Capo, a Play
* Two Slatterns and a King, a Play
* The Lamp and the Bell, a Play
* The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver, a Poem
A Few Figs From Thistles
Poems and Sonnets
By
Edna St. Vincent Millay
New and Enlarged Edition
| Frank Shay Publisher New York | Steward Kidd Distributor Cincinnati |
Copyright, 1922 by Frank Shay All Rights Reserved
Printed in the United States of America The Caxton Press
A FEW FIGS FROM THISTLES
Thanks are due to the editors of Ainslie’s, The Dial, Pearson’s, Poetry, Reedy’s Mirror, and Vanity Fair, for their kind permission to republish various of these poems.
This edition of “A Few Figs from Thistles” contains several poems not included in earlier editions.
| First Fig | 09 |
| Second Fig | 09 |
| Recuerdo | 10 |
| Thursday | 12 |
| To the Not Impossible Him | 13 |
| MacDougal Street | 14 |
| The Singing-Woman from the Wood’s Edge | 16 |
| She is Overheard Singing | 19 |
| The Prisoner | 22 |
| The Unexplorer | 23 |
| Grown-Up | 24 |
| The Penitent | 25 |
| Daphne | 27 |
| Portrait by a Neighbor | 28 |
| Midnight Oil | 30 |
| The Merry Maid | 31 |
| To Kathleen | 32 |
| To S. M. | 33 |
| The Philosopher | 34 |
| Sonnet—Love, Though for This | 36 |
| Sonnet—I Think I Should Have Loved You | 37 |
| Sonnet—Oh, Think Not I am Faithful | 38 |
| Sonnet—I Shall Forget You Presently | 39 |
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1930.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1950, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 74 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
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/First Fig

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​First Fig
My candle burns at both ends; It will not last the night; But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends— It gives a lovely light!
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/Second Fig

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​Second Fig
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/Recuerdo

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​Recuerdo
We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable— But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on the hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry, We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and the pears, And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/Thursday

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​Thursday
And if I loved you Wednesday, Well, what is that to you? I do not love you Thursday— So much is true.
And why you come complaining Is more than I can see. I loved you Wednesday,—yes—but what Is that to me?
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/To the Not Impossible Him

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​To the Not Impossible Him
How shall I know, unless I go To Cairo and Cathay, Whether or not this blessed spot Is blest in every way?
Now it may be, the flower for me Is this beneath my nose; How shall I tell, unless I smell The Carthaginian rose?
The fabric of my faithful love No power shall dim or ravel Whilst I stay here,—but oh, my dear, If I should ever travel!
# Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;  Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The firefly wakens: waken thou with me.
  Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.   Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me.   Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.
  Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake: So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me.
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
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/MacDougal Street

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​MacDougal Street
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/The Singing-Woman from the Wood's Edge

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​The Singing-Woman from the Wood’s Edge
What should I be but a prophet and a liar, Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar? Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water, What should I be but the fiend’s god-daughter?
And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog, That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog? And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar, But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter?
You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe, As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby, You will find such flame at the wave’s weedy ebb As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother’s web,
But there comes to birth no common spawn From the love of a priest for a leprechaun, And you never have seen and you never will see Such things as the things that swaddled me!
After all’s said and after all’s done, What should I be but a harlot and a nun?
In through the bushes, on any foggy day, My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away, With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth, A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth.
And there sit my Ma, her knees beneath her chin, A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in, And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying!
He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin, He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin, He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil, And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil!
Oh, the things I haven’t seen and the things I haven’t known, What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown, And yanked both ways by my mother and my father, With a “Which would you better?” and a “Which would you rather?”
With him for a sire and her for a dam, What should I be but just what I am?
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/She is Overheard Singing

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​She is Overheard Singing
Oh, Prue she has a patient man, And Joan a gentle lover, And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,— But my true love’s a rover!
Mig, her man’s as good as cheese And honest as a briar, Sue tells her love what he’s thinking of,— But my dear lad’s a liar!
Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha Are thick with Mig and Joan! They bite their threads and shake their heads And gnaw my name like a bone;
And Prue says, “Mine’s a patient man, As never snaps me up,”
And Agatha, “Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth, Could live content in a cup,”
Sue’s man’s mind is like good jell— All one color, and clear— And Mig’s no call to think at all What’s to come next year,
While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad, That’s troubled with that and this;— But they all would give the life they live For a look from the man I kiss!
Cold he slants his eyes about, And few enough’s his choice,— Though he’d slip me clean for a nun, or a queen, Or a beggar with knots in her voice,—
And Agatha will turn awake When her good man sleeps sound, And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue Will hear the clock strike round,
For Prue she has a patient man, As asks not when or why,
And Mig and Sue have naught to do But peep who’s passing by,
Joan is paired with a putterer That bastes and tastes and salts, And Agatha’s Arth’ is a hug-the-hearth,— But my true love is false!
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/The Prisoner

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​The Prisoner
All right, Go ahead! What’s in a name? I guess I’ll be locked into As much as I’m locked out of!
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/The Unexplorer

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​The Unexplorer
There was a road ran past our house Too lovely to explore. I asked my mother once—she said That if you followed where it led It brought you to the milk-man’s door. (That’s why I have not traveled more.)
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/Grown-Up

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​Grown-Up
Was it for this I uttered prayers, And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs, That now, domestic as a plate, I should retire at half-past eight?
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/The Penitent

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​The Penitent
I had a little Sorrow, Born of a little Sin, I found a room all damp with gloom And shut us all within; And, “Little Sorrow, weep,” said I, “And, Little Sin, pray God to die, And I upon the floor will lie And think how bad I’ve been!”
Alas for pious planning— It mattered not a whit! As far as gloom went in that room, The lamp might have been lit! My Little Sorrow would not weep, My Little Sin would go to sleep— To save my soul I could not keep My graceless mind on it!
So up I got in anger, And took a book I had,
And put a ribbon on my hair To please a passing lad. And, “One thing there’s no getting by— I’ve been a wicked girl,” said I; “But if I can’t be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!”
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/Daphne

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​Daphne
Why do you follow me?— Any moment I can be Nothing but a laurel-tree.
Any moment of the chase I can leave you in my place A pink bough for your embrace.
Yet if over hill and hollow Still it is your will to follow, I am off;—to heel, Apollo!
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/Portrait by a Neighbor

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​Portrait by a Neighbor
Before she has her floor swept Or her dishes done, Any day you’ll find her A-sunning in the sun!
It’s long after midnight Her key’s in the lock, And you never see her chimney smoke Till past ten o’clock!
She digs in her garden With a shovel and a spoon, She weeds her lazy lettuce By the light of the moon.
She walks up the walk Like a woman in a dream,
She forgets she borrowed butter And pays you back cream!
Her lawn looks like a meadow, And if she mows the place She leaves the clover standing And the Queen Anne’s lace!
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/Midnight Oil

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​Midnight Oil
Cut if you will, with Sleep’s dull knife, Each day to half its length, my friend,— The years that Time takes off my life, He’ll take from off the other end!
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/The Merry Maid

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​The Merry Maid
Oh, I am grown so free from care Since my heart broke! I set my throat against the air, I laugh at simple folk!
There’s little kind and little fair Is worth its weight in smoke To me, that’s grown so free from care Since my heart broke!
Lass, if to sleep you would repair As peaceful as you woke, Best not besiege your lover there For just the words he spoke To me, that’s grown so free from care Since my heart broke!
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/To Kathleen

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​To Kathleen
Still must the poet as of old, In barren attic bleak and cold, Starve, freeze, and fashion verses to Such things as flowers and song and you;
Still as of old his being give In Beauty’s name, while she may live, Beauty that may not die as long As there are flowers and you and song.
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/To S. M.

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​To S. M. If he should lie a-dying
I am not willing you should go Into the earth, where Helen went; She is awake by now, I know. Where Cleopatra’s anklets rust You will not lie with my consent; And Sappho is a roving dust; Cressid could love again; Dido, Rotted in state, is restless still; You leave me much against my will.
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/The Philosopher

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​The Philosopher
And what are you that, missing you, I should be kept awake As many nights as there are days With weeping for your sake?
And what are you that, missing you, As many days as crawl I should be listening to the wind And looking at the wall?
I know a man that’s a braver man And twenty men as kind, And what are you, that you should be The one man in my mind?
Yet women’s ways are witless ways, As any sage will tell,— And what am I, that I should love So wisely and so well?
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/Sonnet (Love, Though for This)

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Four Sonnets
I
Love, though for this you riddle me with darts, And drag me at your chariot till I die,— Oh, heavy prince! Oh, panderer of hearts!— Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie Who shout you mighty: thick about my hair, Day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr, Who still am free, unto no querulous care A fool, and in no temple worshiper! I, that have bared me to your quiver’s fire, Lifted my face into its puny rain, Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain! (Now will the god, for blasphemy so brave, Punish me, surely, with the shaft I crave!)
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/Sonnet (I Think I Should Have Loved You)

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II
I think I should have loved you presently, And given in earnest words I flung in jest; And lifted honest eyes for you to see, And caught your hand against my cheek and breast; And all my pretty follies flung aside That won you to me, and beneath your gaze, Naked of reticence and shorn of pride, Spread like a chart my little wicked ways. I, that had been to you, had you remained, But one more waking from a recurrent dream, Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained, And walk your memory’s halls, austere, supreme, A ghost in marble of a girl you knew Who would have loved you in a day or two.
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/Sonnet (Oh, Think Not I am Faithful)

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III
Oh, think not I am faithful to a vow! Faithless am I save to love’s self alone. Were you not lovely I would leave you now: After the feet of beauty fly my own. Were you not still my hunger’s rarest food, And water ever to my wildest thirst, I would desert you—think not but I would!— And seek another as I sought you first. But you are mobile as the veering air, And all your charms more changeful than the tide, Wherefore to be inconstant is no care: I have but to continue at your side. So wanton, light and false, my love, are you, I am most faithless when I most am true.
# A Few Figs from Thistles (Frank Shay, 1922)/Sonnet (I Shall Forget You Presently)

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IV
I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year, Ere I forget, or die, or move away, And we are done forever; by and by I shall forget you, as I said, but now, If you entreat me with your loveliest lie I will protest you with my favorite vow. I would indeed that love were longer-lived, And vows were not so brittle as they are, But so it is, and nature has contrived To struggle on without a break thus far,— Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking.
# The Faerie Queene (1590/1596)/Books 1 to 3 (1590)/Book II/Canto III

Cant III.
# History of Islands & Islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick/Advertisements

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CANADIAN Newspaper Subscription Agency.
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St. Stephen, N. B. ​Page:History of islands & islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick; (IA historyofislands00lori).pdf/128 ​Page:History of islands & islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick; (IA historyofislands00lori).pdf/129 ​Page:History of islands & islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick; (IA historyofislands00lori).pdf/130 ​Page:History of islands & islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick; (IA historyofislands00lori).pdf/131 ​Page:History of islands & islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick; (IA historyofislands00lori).pdf/132 ​Page:History of islands & islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick; (IA historyofislands00lori).pdf/133 ​Page:History of islands & islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick; (IA historyofislands00lori).pdf/134 ​Page:History of islands & islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick; (IA historyofislands00lori).pdf/135 ​Page:History of islands & islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick; (IA historyofislands00lori).pdf/136 ​Page:History of islands & islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick; (IA historyofislands00lori).pdf/137 ​Page:History of islands & islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick; (IA historyofislands00lori).pdf/138 ​Page:History of islands & islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick; (IA historyofislands00lori).pdf/139 ​Page:History of islands & islets in the Bay of Fundy, Charlotte County, New Brunswick; (IA historyofislands00lori).pdf/140