OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Birds of Passage (Collection)/Catawba Wine

Featured in Vol 1., No. 3 of The Atlantic Monthly
This song of mine Is a Song of the Vine, To be sung by the glowing embers Of wayside inns, When the rain begins To darken the drear Novembers.
It is not a song Of the Scuppernong, From warm Carolinian valleys, Nor the Isabel And the Muscadel That bask in our garden alleys.
Nor the red Mustang, Whose clusters hang O'er the waves of the Colorado, And the fiery flood Of whose purple blood Has a dash of Spanish bravado.
For richest and best Is the wine of the West, That grows by the Beautiful River; Whose sweet perfume Fills all the room With a benison on the giver.
And as hollow trees Are the haunts of bees, For ever going and coming; So this crystal hive Is all alive With a swarming and buzzing and humming.
Very good in its way Is the Verzenay, Or the Sillery soft and creamy; But Catawba wine Has a taste more divine, More dulcet, delicious, and dreamy.
There grows no vine By the haunted Rhine, By Danube or Guadalquivir, Nor on island or cape, That bears such a grape As grows by the Beautiful River.
Drugged is their juice For foreign use, When shipped o'er the reeling Atlantic, To rack our brains With the fever pains, That have driven the Old World frantic.
To the sewers and sinks With all such drinks, And after them tumble the mixer; For a poison malign Is such Borgia wine, Or at best but a Devil's Elixir.
While pure as a spring Is the wine I sing, And to praise it, one needs but name it; For Catawba wine Has need of no sign, No tavern-bush to proclaim it.
And this Song of the Vine, This greeting of mine, The winds and the birds shall deliver To the Queen of the West, In her garlands dressed, On the banks of the Beautiful River.
# Birds of Passage (Collection)/Daylight and Moonlight

Featured in Vol 1., No. 4 of The Atlantic Monthly
Daylight and Moonlight
In broad daylight, and at noon, Yesterday I saw the moon Sailing high, but faint and white, As a school-boy's paper kite.
In broad daylight, yesterday, I read a Poet's mystic lay; And it seemed to me at most As a phantom, or a ghost.
But at length the feverish day Like a passion died away, And the night, serene and still, Fell on village, vale, and hill.
Then the moon, in all her pride, Like a spirit glorified, Filled and overflowed the night With revelations of her light.
And the Poet's song again Passed like music through my brain. Night interpreted to me All its grace and mystery.
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
# Birds of Passage (Collection)/Daybreak

Featured in Vol 1., No. 4 of The Atlantic Monthly
Daybreak
A wind came up out of the sea, And said, "O mists, make room for me."
It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on, Ye mariners, the night is gone."
And hurried landward far away, Crying, "Awake! it is the day."
It said unto the forest, "Shout! Hang all your leafy banners out!"
It touched the wood-bird's folded wing, And said, "O bird, awake and sing."
And o'er the farms, "O chanticleer, Your clarion blow; the day is near."
It whispered to the fields of corn, "Bow down, and hail the coming morn."
It shouted through the belfry-tower, "Awake, O bell! proclaim the hour."
It crossed the churchyard with a sigh, And said, "Not yet! in quiet lie."
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
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)/The Old Burying-Ground

Featured in Vol 1., No. 4 of The Atlantic Monthly.
THE OLD BURYING-GROUND.
# Birds of Passage (Collection)/Sandalphon

Featured in Vol 1., No. 6 of The Atlantic Monthly.
Have you read in the Talmud of old, In the Legends the Rabbins have told Of the limitless realms of the air,-- Have you read it,--the marvellous story Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory, Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?
How, erect, at the outermost gates Of the City Celestial he waits, With his feet on the ladder of light, That, crowded with angels unnumbered, By Jacob was seen, as he slumbered Alone in the desert at night?
The Angels of Wind and of Fire Chant only one hymn, and expire With the song's irresistible stress; Expire in their rapture and wonder, As harp-strings are broken asunder By music they throb to express.
But serene in the rapturous throng, Unmoved by the rush of the song, With eyes unimpassioned and slow, Among the dead angels, the deathless Sandalphon stands listening breathless To sounds that ascend from below;--
From the spirits on earth that adore, From the souls that entreat and implore In the fervor and passion of prayer; From the hearts that are broken with losses, And weary with dragging the crosses Too heavy for mortals to bear.
And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And they change into flowers in his hands, Into garlands of purple and red; And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal Is wafted the fragrance they shed.
It is but a legend, I know,-- A fable, a phantom, a show, Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; Yet the old mediaeval tradition, The beautiful, strange superstition, But haunts me and holds me the more.
When I look from my window at night, And the welkin above is all white, All throbbing and panting with stars, Among them majestic is standing Sandalphon the angel, expanding His pinions in nebulous bars.
And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet its fever and pain.
# Charley's Death

Featured in Vol 1., No. 7 of The Atlantic Monthly.
Charley's Death
The wind got up moaning, and blew to a breeze;  I sat with my face closely pressed on the pane;  In a minute or two it began to rain,  And put out the sunset-fire in the trees.
 In the clouds' black faces broke out dismay  That ran of a sudden up half the sky,  And the team, cutting ruts in the grass, went by,  Heavy and dripping with sweet wet hay.
 Clutching the straws out and knitting his brow,  Walked Arthur beside it, unsteady of limb;  I stood up in wonder, for, following him,  Charley was used to be;--where was he now?
 "'Tis like him," I said, "to be working thus late!"--  I said it, but did not believe it was so;  He could not have staid in the meadow to mow,  With rain coming down at so dismal a rate.
 "He's bringing the cows home."--I choked at that lie:  They were huddled close by in a tumult and fret,  Some pawing the dry dust up out of the wet,  Some looking afield with their heads lifted high.
 O'er the run, o'er the hilltop, and on through the gloom  My vision ran quick as the lightning could dart;  All at once the blood shocked and stood still in my heart;--  He was coming as never till then he had come!
 Borne 'twixt our four work-hands, I saw through the fall  Of the rain, and the shadows so thick and so dim,  They had taken their coats off and spread them on him,  And that he was lying out straight,--that was all!
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
# Epigram on J. M.

Featured in Vol 1., No. 7 of The Atlantic Monthly.
Epigram on J. M.
Said Fortune to a common spit,  "Your rust and grease I'll rid ye on,  And make ye in a twinkling fit  For Ireland's Sword of Gideon!"
 In vain! what Nature meant for base  All chance for good refuses;  M. gave one gleam, then turned apace  To dirtiest kitchen uses.
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 Word to the Wise

Unattributed 1858 poem. Featured in Vol 1., No. 7 of The Atlantic Monthly.
A Word to the Wise
Love hailed a little maid,  Romping through the meadow:  Heedless in the sun she played,  Scornful of the shadow.  "Come with me," whispered he;  "Listen, sweet, to love and reason."  "By and by," she mocked reply;  "Love's not in season."
 Years went, years came;  Light mixed with shadow.  Love met the maid again,  Dreaming through the meadow.  "Not so coy," urged the boy;  "List in time to love and reason."  "By and by," she mused reply;  "Love's still in season."
 Years went, years came;  Light changed to shadow.  Love saw the maid again,  Waiting in the meadow.  "Pass no more; my dream is o'er;  I can listen now to reason."  "Keep thee coy," mocked the boy;  "Love's out of season."
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
# The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 1/Number 7/Mercedes

Featured in Vol 1., No. 7 of The Atlantic Monthly.
Mercedes
Under a sultry, yellow sky,  On the yellow sand I lie;  The crinkled vapors smite my brain,  I smoulder in a fiery pain.
 Above the crags the condor flies;  He knows where the red gold lies,  He knows where the diamonds shine;--  If I knew, would she be mine?
 Mercedes in her hammock swings;  In her court a palm-tree flings  Its slender shadow on the ground,  The fountain falls with silver sound.
 Her lips are like this cactus cup;  With my hand I crush it up;  I tear its flaming leaves apart;--  Would that I could tear her heart!
 Last night a man was at her gate;  In the hedge I lay in wait;  I saw Mercedes meet him there,  By the fire-flies in her hair.
 I waited till the break of day,  Then I rose and stole away;  I drove my dagger through the gate;--  Now she knows her lover's fate!
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
# The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 1/Number 3/Tacking Ship off Shore

Featured in Vol 1., No. 3 of The Atlantic Monthly. (January 1858)
TACKING SHIP OFF SHORE.
i.
The weather leech of the topsail shivers, The bowlines strain and the lee shrouds slacken, The braces are taut, the lithe boom quivers, And the waves with the coming squall-cloud blacken.
ii.
Open one point on the weather bow Is the light-house tall on Fire Island head; There's a shade of doubt on the captain's brow, And the pilot watches the heaving lead.
iii.
I stand at the wheel and with eager eye To sea and to sky and to shore I gaze, Till the muttered order of "Full and by!" Is suddenly changed to "Full for stays!"
iv.
The ship bends lower before the breeze, As her broadside fair to the blast she lays; And she swifter springs to the rising seas, As the pilot calls, "Stand by for stays!"
v.
It is silence all, as each in his place, With the gathered coils in his hardened hands, By tack and bowline, by sheet and brace, Waiting the watchword impatient stands.
vi.
And the light on Fire Island head draws near, As, trumpet-winged, the pilot's shout From his post on the bowsprit's heel I hear, With the welcome call of "Ready! About!"
vii.
No time to spare! It is touch and go, And the captain growls, "Down helm! Hard down!" As my weight on the whirling spokes I throw, While heaven grows black with the storm-cloud's frown.
viii.
High o'er the knight-heads flies the spray, As we meet the shock of the plunging sea; And my shoulder stiff to the wheel I lay, As I answer, "Aye, aye, Sir! Ha-a-r-d a-lee!"
ix.
With the swerving leap of a startled steed The ship flies fast in the eye of the wind, The dangerous shoals on the lee recede, And the headland white we have left behind.
x.
The topsails flutter, the jibs collapse And belly and tug at the groaning cleats, The spanker slats, and the mainsail flaps, And thunders the order, "Tacks and sheets!"
xi.
'Mid the rattle of blocks and the tramp of the crew, Hisses the rain of the rushing squall; The sails are aback from clew to clew, And now is the moment for "Mainsail, haul!"
xii.
And the heavy yards like a baby's toy By fifty strong arms are swiftly swung; She holds her way, and I look with joy For the first white spray o'er the bulwarks flung.
xiii.
"Let go and haul!" 'Tis the last command, And the head-sails fill to the blast once more; Astern and to leeward lies the land, With its breakers white on the shingly shore.
xiv.
What matters the reef, or the rain, or the squall? I steady the helm for the open sea; The first mate clamors, "Belay there, all!" And the captain's breath once more comes free.
xv.
And so off shore let the good ship fly; Little care I how the gusts may blow, In my fo'castle-bunk in a jacket dry,— Eight bells have struck, and my watch is below.
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
# Caroling Dusk/To a Certain Lady, in Her Garden

TO A CERTAIN LADY, IN HER GARDEN
(A. S.)
# Caroling Dusk/Salutamus

SALUTAMUS
(O Gentlemen the time of Life is short—Henry IV)
# The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 1/Number 3/The Wedding Veil

Featured in Vol 1., No. 3 of The Atlantic Monthly.
THE WEDDING VEIL
Dear Anna, when I brought her veil, Her white veil, on her wedding-night, Threw o'er my thin brown hair its folds, And, laughing, turned me to the light.
"See, Bessie, see! you wear for once The bridal veil, forsworn for years!" She saw my face,—her laugh was hushed, Her happy eyes were filled with tears.
With kindly haste and trembling hand She drew away the gauzy mist; "Forgive, dear heart!"—her sweet voice said; Her loving lips my forehead kissed.
We passed from out the searching light; The summer night was calm and fair: I did not see her pitying eyes, I felt her soft hand smooth my hair.
Her tender love unlocked my heart; 'Mid falling tears, at last I said, "Forsworn indeed to me that veil, Because I only love the dead!"
She stood one moment statue-still, And, musing, spake in under-tone, "The living love may colder grow; The dead is safe with God alone!"
# Caroling Dusk/Challenge

CHALLENGE
# Challenge

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Challenge"
* 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 Challenge", a poem appearing in Beautiful Old Song, Entitled, The Duke of Gordon's Three Daughters, published anonymously
* "Challenge", a poem by Sterling A. Brown
* "Challenge", a poem by Helena Jane Coleman
* "The Challenge", a poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
# Caroling Dusk/Return

RETURN
# Caroling Dusk/Clarissa Scott Delany

CLARISSA SCOTT DELANY
“I was born at Tuskegee Institute, Alabama, in the Twentieth Century, and spent my early years in what is known as the ‘Black Belt.’ This was followed by seven years in New England (1916–1928), three at Bradford Academy, and four at Wellesley College, where my southern blood became tinged with something of the austerity of that section. Three years of teaching in the Dunbar High School of Washington, D. C., convinced me that though the children were interesting, teaching was not my metier. In the fall of 1926 I was married. Since completing a study of Delinquency and Neglect among Negro children in New York City, my career has been that of a wife, and as careers go, that is an interesting and absorbing one.”
# Plotinus (MacKenna)/Volume 1

Layout 2
THE LIBRARY OF PHILOSOPHICAL TRANSLATIONS. PLOTINUS: THE ETHICAL TREATISES, VOLUME I.
Do ċum glóirе Dé & onóra na h-Éireann, i n’Doṁnaċ-Droc Ḋaile-Áṫa-Cliaṫ ḋom, Stíofán mac-Enna. Nodlaig 1916.
LOTINUS: THE ETHICAL TREATISES BEING THE TREATISES OF THE FIRST ENNEAD WITH PORPHYRY'S LIFE OF PLOTINUS, AND THE PRELLER-RITTER EXTRACTS FORMING A CONSPECTUS OF THE PLOTINIAN SYSTEM, TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK BY STEPHEN MACKENNA
PHILIP LEE WARNER, PUBLISHER TO THE MEDICI SOCIETY, LIMITED 7 GRAFTON ST. LONDON, W, 1. 1917
Of this Edition 1000 copies have been printed on pure rag paper.
CONTENTS
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 1/Number 5/Cornucopia

Featured in Vol 1., No. 5 of The Atlantic Monthly, 1858.
Cornucopia
There's a lodger lives on the first floor,  (My lodgings are up in the garret,)  At night and at morn he taketh a horn  And calleth his neighbors to share it,--  A horn so long, and a horn so strong,  I wonder how they can bear it.
 I don't mean to say that he drinks,  For that were a joke or a scandal;  But, every one knows it, he night and day blows it;--  I wish he'd blow out like a candle!  His horn is so long, and he blows it so strong,  He would make Handel fly off the handle.
 By taking a horn I don't hint  That he swigs either rum, gin, or whiskey;  It's we who drink in his din worse than gin,  His strains that attempt to be frisky,  But are grievously sad.--A donkey, I add,  Is as musical, braying in his key.
 It's a puzzle to know what he's at;  I could pity him, if it were madness:  I never yet knew him to play a tune through,  And it gives me more anger than sadness  To hear his horn stutter and stammer to utter  Its various abortions of badness.
 At his wide open window he stands,  Overlooking his bit of a garden;  One can see the great ass at one end of his brass  Blaring out, never asking your pardon:  This terrible blurting he thinks is not hurting,  As long as his own ear-drums harden.
 He thinks, I've no doubt, it is sweet,  While thus Time and Tune he is flaying;  The little house-sparrows feel all through their marrows  The jar and the fuss of his playing,--  The windows all shaking, the babies all waking,  The very dogs howling and baying.
 One note out of twenty he hits,  And, cheered, blows pianos like fortes.  His time is his own. He goes sounding alone,  (A sort of Columbus or Cortés,)  On a perilous ocean, without any notion  Whereabouts in the dim deep his port is.
 Like a man late from club, he has lost  His key, and around stumbles moping,  Touching this, trying that, now a sharp, now a flat,  Till he strikes on the note he is hoping,  And a terrible blare at the end of the air  Shows he's got through at last with his groping.
 There,--he's finished,--at least, for a while;  He is tired, or come to his senses;  And out of his horn shakes the drops that were borne  By the winds of his musical frenzies.  There's a rest, thank our stars, of ninety-nine bars,  Ere the tempest of sound recommences.
 When all the bad players are sent  Where all their false notes are protested,  I am sure that Old Nick will play him a trick,  When his bad trump and he are arrested,  And down in the regions of Discord's own legions  His head with two French horns be crested.
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
# Joy

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Joy"
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, 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.
* “Joy,” a poem by Cora C. Bass
* “Joy,” a short story by Anton Chekhov
* “Joy,” a poem by Gladys Cromwell
* “Joy,” a poem by Annie Isabel Curwen
* Joy, a play by John Galsworthy
* “Joy,” a poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
* “Joy,” a poem by Dyneley Hussey
* “Joy,” a poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
* “Joy,” a poem by Georgia Douglas Camp Johnson
* “Joy,” a poem by Edith Willis Linn
* “Joy,” a poem by Clarissa Scott Delany
* “Joy,” a poem by Sara Teasdale
* “Joy,” a poem by Anne Whitney
# Plotinus (MacKenna)/Volume 1/Ennead 1.9

NINTH TRACTATE
"The Reasoned Dismissal"
"You will not dismiss your Soul lest it go forth . . ." (taking something with it).
For wheresoever it go, it will be in some definite condition, and its going forth is to some new place. The Soul will wait for the body to be completely severed from it; then it makes no departure; it simply finds itself free.
​But how does the body come to be separated?
The separation takes place when nothing of Soul remains bound up with it: the harmony within the body, by virtue of which the Soul was retained, is broken and it can no longer hold its guest.
But when a man contrives the dissolution of the body, it is he that has used violence and torn himself away, not the body that has let the Soul slip from it. And in loosing the bond he has not been without passion; there has been revolt or grief or anger, movements which it is unlawful to indulge.
But if a man feel himself to be losing his reason?
That is not likely in the Sage, but if it should occur, it must be classed with the inevitable, to be welcome at the bidding of the fact though not for its own sake. To call upon drugs to the release of the Soul seems a strange way of assisting its purposes.
And if there be a period allotted to all by fate, to anticipate the hour could not be a happy act, unless, as we have indicated, under stern necessity.
If everyone is to hold in the other world a standing determined by the state in which he quitted this, there must be no withdrawal as long as there is any hope of progress.
# The Atlantic Monthly/Volume 1/Number 5/The Psyche

Featured in Vol 1., No. 5 of The Atlantic Monthly.
The Psyche
Like a strain of wondrous music rising up in cloister dim,  Through my life's unwritten measures thou dost steal, a glorious  hymn!  All the joys of earth and heaven in the singing meet, and flow  Richer, sweeter, for the wailing of an undertone of woe.  How I linger, how I listen for each mellow note that falls,  Clear as chime of angels floating downward o'er the jasper walls!
 Every night, when winds are moaning round my chamber by the sea,  Thine's the face that through the darkness latest looks with love at  me;  And I dream, ere thou departest, thou dost press thy lips to mine;--  Then I sleep as slept the Immortals after draughts of Hebe's wine!  And I clasp thee, out of slumber when the rosy day is born,  As the soul, with rapture waking, clasps the resurrection morn.
 'Twas thy soul-wife, 'twas thy Psyche, one uplifted, radiant day,  Thou didst call me;--how divinely on thy brow Love's glory lay!  Thou my Cupid,--not the boy-god whom the Thespians did adore,  But the man, so large, so noble, truer god than Venus bore.  I thy Psyche;--yet what blackness in this thread of gold is wove!  Thou canst never, never lead me, proud, before the throne of Jove!  All the gods might toil to help thee through the longest summer  day;--  Still would watch the fatal Sisters, spinning in the twilight gray;  And their calm and silent faces, changeless looking through the  gloom,  From eternity, would answer, "Thou canst ne'er escape thy doom!"  Couldst thou clasp me, couldst thou claim me, 'neath the soft  Elysian skies,  Then what music and what odor through their azure depths would rise!  Roses all the Hours would scatter, every god would bring us joy,  So, in perfect loving blended, bliss would never know alloy!
 O my heart! the vision changes; fades the soft celestial blue;  Dies away the rapturous music, thrilling all my pulses through!  Lone I sit within my chamber; storms are beating 'gainst the pane,  And my tears are falling faster than the chill December rain;--  Yet, though I am doomed to linger, joyless, on this earthly shore,  Thou art Cupid!--I am Psyche!--we are wedded evermore!
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