OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/In War

IN WAR
Fret the nonchalant noon With your spleen Or your gay brow, For the motion of your spirit Ever moves with these.
When day shall be too quiet, Deaf to you And your dumb smile, Untuned air shall lap the stillness In the old space for your voice—
The voice that once could mirror Remote depths Of moving being, Stirred by responsive voices near, Suddenly stilled for ever.
No ghost darkens the places Dark to One; But my eyes dream, And my heart is heavy to think How it was heavy once.
In the old days when death Stalked the world For the flower of men, And the rose of beauty faded And pined in the great gloom,
One day we dug a grave: We were vexed With the sun's heat. We scanned the hooded dead: At noon we sat and talked.
How death had kissed their eyes Three dread noons since, How human art won The dark soul to flicker Till it was lost again:
And we whom chance kept whole— But haggard,
Spent—were charged To make a place for them who knew No pain in any place.
The good priest came to pray; Our ears half heard, And half we thought Of alien things, irrelevant; And the heat and thirst were great.
The good priest read: "I heard... Dimly my brain Held words and lost.... Sudden my blood ran cold.... God! God! It could not be.
He read my brother's name; I sank— I clutched the priest. They did not tell me it was he Was killed three days ago.
What are the great sceptred dooms To us, caught In the wild wave? We break ourselves on them, My brother, our hearts and years.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/Heart's First Word. II.

HEART'S FIRST WORD. II.
And all her soft dark hair Breathed for him like a prayer, And her white lost face Was prisoned to some far place. Love was not denied— Love's ends would hide, And flower and fruit and tree Were under its sea. Yea, its abundance knelt Where the nerves felt The springs of feeling flow And made pain grow! There seemed no root or sky, But a pent infinity Where apparitions dim Sculptured each whim In flame and wandering mist Of kisses to be kist.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/Lady, You are My God

LADY, YOU ARE MY GOD
Lady, you are my God— Lady, you are my Heaven.
If I am your God Labour for your Heaven.
Lady, you are my God, And shall not love win Heaven?
If love made me God Deeds must win my Heaven.
If my love made you God, What more can I for Heaven?
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/Louse Hunting

LOUSE HUNTING
Nudes, stark and glistening,
Yelling in lurid glee. Grinning faces
And raging limbs
Whirl over the floor one fire;
For a shirt verminously busy
Yon soldier tore from his throat
With oaths
Godhead might shrink at, but not the lice,
And soon the shirt was aflare
Over the candle he'd lit while we lay.
Then we all sprang up and stript
To hunt the verminous brood.
Soon like a demons' pantomime
This plunge was raging.
See the silhouettes agape,
See the gibbering shadows
Mixed with the baffled arms on the wall.
See Gargantuan hooked fingers
Pluck in supreme flesh
To smutch supreme littleness.
See the merry limbs in that Highland fling
Because some wizard vermin willed
To charm from the quiet this revel
When our ears were half lulled
By the dark music
Blown from Sleep's trumpet.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/In the Underworld

IN THE UNDERWORLD
I have lived in the underworld so long: How can you, a creature of light, Without terror understand the song And unmoved hear what moves in night?
I am a spirit that yours has found, Strange, undelightful, obscure, Created by some other God, and bound In terrible darkness, breathing breath impure.
Creature of light and happiness, Deeper the darkness was when you, With your bright terror eddying the distress, Grazed the dark waves and shivering further flew.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/Killed in Action

KILLED IN ACTION
Your "Youth" has fallen from its shelf,
And you have fallen, you yourself.
They knocked a soldier on the head,
I mourn the poet who fell dead.
And yet I think it was by chance,
By oversight you died in France.
You were so poor an outward man,
So small against your spirit's span,
That Nature, being tired awhile,
Saw but your outward human pile;
And Nature, who would never let
A sun with light still in it set,
Before you even reached your sky,
In inadvertence let you die.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/If You are Fire

IF YOU ARE FIRE
If you are fire and I am fire, Who blows the flame apart So that desire eludes desire Around one central heart?
A single root and separate bough, And what blind hands between That make our longing's mutual glow As if it had not been?
# Physician and Sick Man

Perry index 170
* "A Doctor and his Patient", in Fables of Æsop and Other Eminent Mythologists (1692)
* "The Sick Man and the Doctor", translated by Vernon Stanley Jones, in Æsop's fables: A New Translation (1912)
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
# Physics

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Physics."
* 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.
* Physics, philosophical text by Aristotle
* Physics, scientific text by Balfour Stewart IA
* Physics: Advanced Course, scientific text by George Frederick Barker (Google Books )
# Physics World

Science journal
# Physician of my sin-sick soul

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
A sick soul by John Newton
    Physician of my sin-sick soul,
    To thee I bring my case;
    My raging malady control,
    And heal me by thy grace.
    Pity the anguish I endure,
    See how I mourn and pine;
    For never can I hope a cure
    From any hand but thine.
    I would disclose my whole complaint,
    But where shall I begin?
    No words of mine can fully paint
    That worst distemper, sin.
    It lies not in a single part,
    But through my frame is spread;
    A burning fever in my heart,
    A palsy in my head.
    It makes me deaf, and dumb, and blind,
    And impotent and lame;
    And overclouds, and fills my mind,
    With folly, fear, and shame.
    A thousand evil thoughts intrude
    Tumultuous in my breast;
    Which indispose me for my food,
    And rob me of my rest.
    Lord I am sick, regard my cry,
    And set my spirit free;
    Say, canst thou let a sinner die,
    Who longs to live to thee?
# Physics (Aristotle)

Physics (or "Physica", or "Physicae Auscultationes" meaning "lessons") is a key text in the philosophy of Aristotle. The ancient Greek title of these treatises—τὰ φυσικά—meant "the [writings] on nature" or "natural philosophy".Warning: template has been deprecated.
English-language translations of Φυσικά include:
* Physics, translated by Robert Purves Hardie and Russell Kerr Gaye in The Works of Aristotle, Vol. 2 (1930).
* Physics, translated by Wikisource
# Phèdre

Subtitle: "To Sarah Bernhardt"
* "Phèdre" in The Writings of Oscar Wilde (1907)
* "Phèdre" in The Poems of Oscar Wilde (1909)
# Piano Musical Instrument Workers Union, Local No. 2549, United Brotherhood of Carpenters & Joiners v. W. W. Kimball Company

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
379 U.S. 357
Piano Musical Instrument Workers Union, Local No. 2549, United Brotherhood of Carpenters & Joiners v. W. W. Kimball Company
Bernard M. Mamet, for petitioner.
Thomas R. Mulroy, for respondent.
On petition for writ of certiorari to the United States Court of Appeals for the Seventh Circuit.
PER CURIAM.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Weather-beäten Tree

THE WEATHER-BEATEN TREE.
The woaken tree, a-beät at night By stormy winds wi’ all their spite, Mid toss his lim’s, an’ ply, an’ mwoan, Wi’ unknown struggles all alwone; An’ when the day do show his head, A-stripp’d by winds at last a-laid, How vew mid think that didden zee, How night-time had a-tried thik tree.
An’ happy vo’k do seldom know How hard our unknown storms do blow, The while our heads do slowly bend Below the trials God do zend, Like shiv’rèn bennets, beäre to all The drevèn winds o’ dark’nèn fall. An’ zoo in tryèn hardships we Be lik’ the weather beaten tree.
But He will never meäke our sheäre O’ sorrow mwore than we can bear, But meäke us zee, if ’tis His will, That He can bring us good vrom ill; As after winter He do bring, In His good time, the zunny spring, An’ leaves, an’ young vo’k vull o’ glee A-dancèn roun’ the woaken tree.
​True love’s the ivy that do twine Unwith’rèn roun’ his mossy rine, When winter’s zickly zun do sheen Upon its leaves o’ glossy green, So patiently a-holdèn vast Till storms an’ cwold be all a-past, An’ only livèn vor to be A-meäted to the woaken tree.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Wheel Routs

THE WHEEL ROUTS.
’Tis true I brought noo fortune hwome  Wi’ Jenny, vor her honey-moon, But still a goodish hansel come  Behind her perty soon, Vor stick, an’ dish, an’ spoon, all vell To Jeäne, vrom Aunt o’ Camwy dell.
Zoo all the lot o’ stuff a-tied  Upon the plow, a tidy tod, On gravel-crunchèn wheels did ride,  Wi’ ho’ses, iron-shod, That, as their heads did nod, my whip Did guide along wi’ lightsome flip.
An’ there it rod ’ithin the rwope,  Astraïn’d athirt, an’ straïn’d along, Down Thornhay’s evenèn-lighted slope  An’ up the beech-tree drong; Where wheels a-bound so strong, cut out On either zide a deep-zunk rout.
An’ when at Fall the trees wer brown,  Above the bennet-bearèn land, When beech-leaves slowly whiver’d down,  By evenèn winds a-fann’d; The routs wer each a band o’ red, A-vill’d by drifted beech-leaves dead.
An’ when, in Winter’s leafless light,  The keener eastern wind did blow, An’ scatter down, avore my zight,  A chilly cwoat o’ snow; The routs ageän did show vull bright, In two long streaks o’ glitt’rèn white.
​But when, upon our weddèn night,  The cart’s light wheels, a-rollèn round, Brought Jenny hwome, they run too light  To mark the yieldèn ground; Or welcome would be vound a peäir O’ green-vill’d routs a-runnèn there.
Zoo let me never bring ’ithin  My dwellèn what’s a-won by wrong, An’ can’t come in ’ithout a sin;  Vor only zee how long The waggon marks in drong, did show Wi’ leaves, wi’ grass, wi’ groun’ wi’ snow.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Weepèn Leädy

THE WEEPEN LEADY.
When, leäte o’ nights, above the green By thik wold house, the moon do sheen, A leädy there, a-hangèn low Her head, ’s a-walkèn to an’ fro In robes so white’s the driven snow,  Wi’ woone eärm down, while woone do rest  All lily-white athirt the breast  O’ thik poor weepèn leädy.
The whirlèn wind an’ whis’lèn squall Do sheäke the ivy by the wall, An’ meäke the plyèn tree-tops rock, But never ruffle her white frock; An’ slammèn door an’ rattlèn lock,  That in thik empty house do sound,  Do never seem to meäke look round  Thik ever downcast leädy.
​A leädy, as the teäle do goo, That woonce liv’d there, an’ lov’d too true, Wer by a young man cast azide. A mother sad, but not a bride; An’ then her father, in his pride  An’ anger, offer’d woone o’ two  Vull bitter things to undergoo  To thik poor weepèn leädy:
That she herzelf should leäve his door, To darken it ageän noo mwore; Or that her little plaÿsome chile, A-zent away a thousand mile, Should never meet her eyes to smile  An’ plaÿ ageän; till she, in sheäme,  Should die an’ leäve a tarnish’d neäme,  A sad vorseäken leädy.
“Let me be lost,” she cried, “the while I do but know vor my poor chile;” An’ left the hwome ov all her pride, To wander drough the worold wide, Wi’ grief that vew but she ha’ tried:  An’ lik’ a flow’r a blow ha’ broke,  She wither’d wi’ the deadly stroke,  An’ died a weepèn leädy.
An’ she do keep a-comèn on To zee her father dead an’ gone, As if her soul could have noo rest Avore her teäry cheäk’s a-prest By his vorgivèn kiss. Zoo blest  Be they that can but live in love,  An’ vind a pleäce o’ rest above  Unlik’ the weepèn leädy.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Welshnut Tree

‘Welshnut’ is the Dorset dialect word for ‘Walnut’
THE WELSHNUT TREE.
When in the evenèn the zun’s a-zinkèn,  A-drowèn sheädes vrom the yollow west, An’ mother, weary, ’s a-zot a thinkèn,  Wi’ vwolded eärms by the vire at rest,  Then we do zwarm, O,  Wi’ such a charm, O,  So vull o’ glee by the welshnut tree.
A-leavèn father in-doors, a-leinèn  In his girt chair in his easy shoes, ​Or in the settle so high behine en,  While down bezide en the dog do snooze,  Our tongues do run, O,  Enough to stun, O,  Your head wi’ glee by the welshnut tree.
There we do play ‘thread the woman’s needle.’  An’ slap the maïdens a-dartèn drough: Or try who’ll ax em the hardest riddle,  Or soonest tell woone a-put us, true;  Or zit an’ ring, O,  The bells, ding, ding, O,  Upon our knee by the welshnut tree.
An’ zome do goo out, an’ hide in orcha’t,  An’ tothers, slily a-stealèn by, Where there’s a dark cunnèn pleäce, do sarch it,  Till they do zee em an’ cry, “I spy,”  An’ thik a-vound, O,  Do gi’e a bound, O,  To get off free to the welshnut tree.
Poll went woone night, that we midden vind her,  Inzide a woak wi’ a hollow moot, An’ drough a hole near the groun’ behind her,  I pok’d a stick in, an’ catch’d her voot;  An’ out she scream’d, O,  An’ jump’d, an’ seem’d, O,  A-móst to vlee to the welshnut tree.
An’ when, at last, at the drashel, mother  Do call us, smilèn, in-door to rest, Then we do cluster by woone another,  To zee hwome them we do love the best:  An’ then do sound, O,  “Good night,” all round, O,  To end our glee by the welshnut tree.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Vier-zide

THE VIER-ZIDE.
’Tis zome vo’ks jaÿ to teäke the road, An’ goo abro’d, a-wand’rèn wide, Vrom shere to shere, vrom pleäce to pleäce, The swiftest peäce that vo’k can ride. But I’ve a jaÿ ’ithin the door, Wi’ friends avore the vier-zide.
​An’ zoo, when winter skies do lour, An’ when the Stour’s a-rollèn wide, Drough bridge-voot raïls, a-painted white, To be at night the traveller’s guide, Gi’e me a pleäce that’s warm an’ dry, A-zittèn nigh my vier-zide.
Vor where do love o’ kith an’ kin, At vu’st begin, or grow an’ wride, Till souls a-lov’d so young, be wold, Though never cwold, drough time nor tide, But where in me’th their gather’d veet Do often meet—the vier-zide.
If, when a friend ha’ left the land, I shook his hand a-most wet-eyed, I velt too well the ob’nèn door Would leäd noo mwore where he did bide, An’ where I heärd his vaïces sound, In me’th around the vier-zide.
As I’ve a-zeed how vast do vall The mwold’rèn hall, the wold vo’ks pride, Where merry hearts wer woonce a-ved Wi’ daily bread, why I’ve a-sigh’d, To zee the wall so green wi’ mwold, An’ vind so cwold the vier-zide.
An’ Chris’mas still mid bring his me’th To ouer he’th, but if we tried To gather all that woonce did wear Gay feäces there! Ah! zome ha’ died, An’ zome be gone to leäve wi’ gaps O’ missèn laps, the vier-zide.
​But come now, bring us in your hand, A heavy brand o’ woak a-dried, To cheer us wi’ his het an’ light, While vrosty night, so starry-skied, Go gather souls that time do speäre To zit an’ sheäre our vier-zide.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Waterspring in the Leäne

THE WATER-SPRING IN THE LEANE.
Oh! aye! the spring ’ithin the leäne, A-leäden down to Lyddan Brook; An’ still a-nesslèn in his nook, As weeks do pass, an’ moons do weäne.  Nwone the drier,  Nwone the higher, Nwone the nigher to the door Where we did live so long avore.
An’ oh! what vo’k his mossy brim Ha’ gathered in the run o’ time! ​The wife a-blushèn in her prime; The widow wi’ her eyezight dim;  Maïdens dippèn,  Childern sippèn, Water drippèn, at the cool Dark wallèn ov the little pool.
Behind the spring do lie the lands My father till’d, vrom Spring to Spring, Awäitèn on vor time to bring The crops to paÿ his weary hands.  Wheat a-growèn,  Beäns a-blowèn, Grass vor mowèn, where the bridge Do leäd to Ryall’s on the ridge.
But who do know when liv’d an’ died The squier o’ the mwoldrèn hall; That lined en wi’ a stwonèn wall, An’ steän’d so cleän his wat’ry zide?  We behind en,  Now can’t vind en, But do mind en, an’ do thank His meäker vor his little tank.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The White Road up athirt the Hill

THE WHITE ROAD UP ATHIRT THE HILL.
When hot-beam’d zuns do strik right down, An’ burn our zweaty feäzen brown; An’ zunny slopes, a-lyèn nigh, Be back’d by hills so blue’s the sky; Then, while the bells do sweetly cheem Upon the champèn high-neck’d team, How lively, wi’ a friend, do seem  The white road up athirt the hill.
The zwellèn downs, wi’ chalky tracks A-climmèn up their zunny backs, Do hide green meads an’ zedgy brooks, An’ clumps o’ trees wi’ glossy rooks, An’ hearty vo’k to laugh an’ zing, An’ parish-churches in a string, Wi’ tow’rs o’ merry bells to ring,  An’ white roads up athirt the hills.
At feäst, when uncle’s vo’k do come To spend the day wi’ us at hwome, An’ we do lay upon the bwoard The very best we can avvword, The wolder woones do talk an’ smoke, An’ younger woones do plaÿ an’ joke, An’ in the evenèn all our vo’k  Do bring em gwaïn athirt the hill.
​An’ while the green do zwarm wi’ wold An’ young, so thick as sheep in vwold, The bellows in the blacksmith’s shop, An’ miller’s moss-green wheel do stop, An’ lwonesome in the wheelwright’s shed ’S a-left the wheelless waggon-bed; While zwarms o’ comèn friends do tread  The white road down athirt the hill.
An’ when the windèn road so white, A-climmèn up the hills in zight, Do leäd to pleäzen, east or west, The vu’st a-known, an’ lov’d the best, How touchèn in the zunsheen’s glow, Or in the sheädes that clouds do drow Upon the zunburnt downs below,  ’S the white road up athirt the hill.
What peaceful hollows here the long White roads do windy round among! Wi’ deäiry cows in woody nooks, An’ haymeäkers among their pooks, An’ housen that the trees do screen From zun an’ zight by boughs o’ green! Young blushèn beauty’s hwomes between  The white roads up athirt the hills.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Vrost

WINTER.
——o——
THE VROST.
Come, run up hwome wi’ us to night, Athirt the vield a-vroze so white, Where vrosty sheädes do lie below The winter ricks a-tipp’d wi’ snow, An’ lively birds, wi’ waggèn taïls, Do hop upon the icy raïls. An’ rime do whiten all the tops O’ bush an’ tree in hedge an’ copse,  In wind’s a-cuttèn keen.
Come, maïdens, come: the groun’s a-vroze Too hard to-night to spweil your clothes. You got noo pools to waddle drough, Nor clay a-pullèn off your shoe: An’ we can trig ye at the zide, To keep ye up if you do slide: Zoo while there’s neither wet nor mud, ’S the time to run an’ warm your blood,  In winds a-cuttèn keen.
Vor young men’s hearts an’ maïden’s eyes Don’t vreeze below the cwoldest skies, While they in twice so keen a blast Can wag their brisk lim’s twice so vast! ​Though vier-light, a-flick’rèn red Drough vrosty window-peänes, do spread Vrom wall to wall, vrom he’th to door, Vor us to goo an’ zit avore,  Vrom winds a-cuttèn keen.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Water Crowvoot

THE WATER CROWVOOT.
O’ small-feäc’d flow’r that now dost bloom To stud wi’ white the shallow Frome, An’ leäve the clote to spread his flow’r On darksome pools o’ stwoneless Stour, When sof’ly-rizèn aïrs do cool The water in the sheenèn pool, Thy beds o’ snow-white buds do gleam So feäir upon the sky-blue stream, As whitest clouds, a-hangèn high Avore the blueness o’ the sky; An’ there, at hand, the thin-heäir’d cows, In aïry sheädes o’ withy boughs, Or up bezide the mossy raïls, Do stan’ an’ zwing their heavy taïls, The while the ripplèn stream do flow Below the dousty bridge’s bow; An’ quiv’rèn water-gleams do mock The weäves, upon the sheäded rock; An’ up athirt the copèn stwone The laïtren bwoy do lean alwone, A-watchèn, wi’ a stedvast look, The vallèn waters in the brook, ​The while the zand o’ time do run An’ leäve his errand still undone. An’ oh! as long’s thy buds would gleam Above the softly-slidèn stream, While sparklèn zummer-brooks do run Below the lofty-climèn zun, I only wish that thou could’st staÿ Vor noo man’s harm, an’ all men’s jaÿ. But no, the waterman ’ull weäde Thy water wi’ his deadly bleäde, To slaÿ thee even in thy bloom, Fair small-feäced flower o’ the Frome.
# Poet Lore/Volume 34/Number 4/Carthage

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CARTHAGE
By Mavis Clare Barnett
This is not Carthage, these are but her stones That rise above the circle of the sea. What men call Troy and Carthage could not be A desolation and forgotten bones, For these live on like some immortal word Told in a legend we cannot forget Of queens who loved, of those whose battles yet Stir us with dreams of what we have not heard.
This is not Carthage, though her ancient name Lingers about the broken citadel. Dust in the red tombs are the ones who fell When what was beauty passed away in flame. And yet, perchance, upon some greater hill The wonder that was Carthage rises still. . .
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1974, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 49 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
# Poet Lore/Volume 34/Number 1/He Who Visions

* related portals: Modern poetry, German literature.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
From the German original Der Schauende (1906)
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HE WHO VISIONS
By Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Jessie Lemont
The storm approaches, the tree tops bend, The storm that gathered from days most fair Against my trembling windows will tear, A muffled murmuring fills the air Of things that alone I cannot bear, That I cannot love without a friend.
The storm, the great transformer will rage, Sweeping through forests and on through time, Levelling landmarks, anchored by age, Till the landscape like the Psalter’s page Opens out luminous and sublime.
How small is the thing against which we fight, That which battles with us—how great its might; If we by inanimate things were taught, If the storm a change within us wrought, We would mightily merge with the Infinite.
That which we conquer is slight and small. Small we remain when with victory crowned; The wonder for us will not befall, The eternal by us will not be bound.
These two are the Angel the wrestler fought,— It is written in the old Prophecies,— Who felt his foe’s sinews under his hands Stretching and straining like metal bands, Beneath his compelling grasp grow taut And vibrant like chords of deep melodies. He whom the Angel vanquished that day, The Angel who oft the fight did reject, Came forth from the struggle great and erect, The hard hand that moulded him like clay While shaping, caressed him silently. Triumph no more spreads beckoning wings. His growth is: Profoundly conquered to be By ever greater things.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.