OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Wisdom

WISDOM.
All Wisdom's ways are smooth and fair, No treasures can with hers compare; More precious than the ruby bright, She leads to honour and delight. Seek her, and she is quickly found, With never-fading olives crown'd. Riches may fly within an hour, Pale sickness wither beauty's flower, Death may our dearest friendships sever, And rend the social tie for ever; Ah! what but Wisdom then remains, To cheer the heart beneath its pains! To bid each murmuring thought arise, And soar with rapture to the skies. She calms the passions of the breast, With soothing hopes of future rest; And like a minister of heaven, She tells us "mortals are forgiven." Then Ophir's gold to her is nought, Nor polished silver finely wrought; Nor all the jewels of the mine, Compar'd with Wisdom's gem divine.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg

ISAAC ROSENBERG.
POEMS BY ISAAC ROSENBERG
SELECTED AND EDITED BY GORDON BOTTOMLEY
WITH AN INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR BY LAURENCE BINYON
LONDON: WILLIAM HEINEMANN
​Youth is still childhood: when we cast off every cloudy vesture, and our thoughts are clear and mature; when every act is a conscious thought, every thought an attempt to arrest feeling; our feelings strong and overwhelming, our sensitiveness awakened by insignificant things in life; when the skies race tumultuously with our blood, and the earth shines and laughs; when our blood hangs suspended at the rustling of a gown. Our vanity loves to subdue—battle, aggressive. How we despise those older and duller—we want life, newness, excitement.
(Circa 1916.)
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
The poems whose titles are marked * appeared in a privately issued pamphlet, "Night and Day. By Isaac Rosenberg. 1912" (pp. 24); those marked § in "Youth. By Isaac Rosenberg. London, I. Narodiczky, Printer, 48 Mile End Road, E. 1915" (pp. 18); and those marked † in "Moses. A Play. By Isaac Rosenberg. London, Printed By The Paragon Printing Works, 8 Ocean Street, Stepney Green, E. 1916" (pp. ii+26).
These pamphlets were the only work issued by the author, in addition to the following single pieces which appeared in various periodicals:
"In the Workshop," in A Piece of Mosaic (for a Jewish Bazaar).
"Our Dead Heroes," in South African Women in Council, December, 1914.
"Essay on Art," Part I, (prose), prefaced by a poem, "Beauty," in South African Women in Council, December, 1914.
"Essay on Art," Part II., South African Women in Council, January, 1915.
"Marching," and "Break of Day in the Trenches," in Poetry (Chicago), December, 1916. ​The following pieces have appeared posthumously:
"In Piccadilly," "If You are Fire," "Heart's First Word, II," "Wedded," "I Did Not Pluck at All," in Art and Letters, Summer, 1919; with an "In Memoriam" notice by Annie Rosenberg.
"Killed in Action," in Colour, October, 1919.
"Savage Song" ("A Naked African" from "Moses"), "God," in Rainbow (New York), October, 1920; with an "In Memoriam" notice by Horace Brodzky.
"I Mingle with Your Bones"; with an article by Samuel Roth, in Voices, Summer, 1921.
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## Works by Isaac Rosenberg

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

## Introductory memoir by Laurence Binyon

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 1943, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 80 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
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/A Ballad of Whitechapel

A BALLAD OF WHITECHAPEL
God's mercy shines; And our full hearts must make record of this, For grief that burst from out its dark confines Into strange sunlit bliss.
I stood where glowed The merry glare of golden whirring lights Above the monstrous mass that seethed and flowed Through one of London's nights.
I watched the gleams Of jagged warm lights on shrunk faces pale: I heard mad laughter as one hears in dreams Or Hell's harsh lurid tale.
The traffic rolled, A gliding chaos populous of din, A steaming wail at doom the Lord had scrawled For perilous loads of sin.
And my soul thought: "What fearful land have my steps wandered to? God's love is everywhere, but here is naught Save love His anger slew."
And as I stood Lost in promiscuous bewilderment, Which to my mazed soul was wonder-food, A girl in garments rent
Peered 'neath lids shamed And spoke to me and murmured to my blood. My soul stopped dead, and all my horror flamed At her forgot of God.
Her hungered eyes, Craving and yet so sadly spiritual, Shone like the unsmirched corner of a jewel Where else foul blemish lies.
I walked with her Because my heart thought, "Here the soul is clean, The fragrance of the frankincense and myrrh Is lost in odours mean."
She told me how The shadow of black death had newly come
And touched her father, mother, even now Grim-hovering in her home,
Where fevered lay Her wasting brother in a cold, bleak room, Which theirs would be no longer than a day, And then—the streets and doom.
Lord! Lord! Dear Lord! I knew that life was bitter, but my soul Recoiled, as anguish-smitten by sharp sword, Grieving such body's dole.
Then grief gave place To a strange pulsing rapture as she spoke; For I could catch the glimpses of God's grace, And a desire awoke
To take this trust And warm and gladden it with love's new fires, Burning the past to ashes and to dust Through purified desires.
We walked our way, One way hewn for us from the birth of Time; For we had wandered into Love's strange clime Through ways sin waits to slay.
Love's euphony,
In Love's own temple that is our glad hearts,
Makes now long music wild deliciously;
Now Grief hath used his darts.
Love infinite,
Chastened by sorrow, hallowed by pure flame—
Not all the surging world can compass it.
Love—Love—O tremulous name!
God's mercy shines;
And my full heart hath made record of this,
Of grief that burst from out its dark confines
Into strange sunlit bliss.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/Written on the Sea-Shore

WRITTEN ON THE SEA-SHORE.
How awful how sublime this view, Each day presenting something new. Hark! now the seas majestic roar, And now the birds their warblings pour; Now yonder lark's sweet notes resound, And now an awful stillness reigns around.
F. D. B. aged 10
# Poems by Ingelow, Jean/A Wedding Song

A WEDDING SONG.
Come up the broad river, the Thames, my Dane,
My Dane with the beautiful eyes!
Thousands and thousands await thee full fain,
And talk of the wind and the skies.
Fear not from folk and from country to part,
O, I swear it is wisely done;
For (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart,
As becometh my father's son.   Great London was shouting as I went down.
'She is worthy,' I said, 'of this;
What shall I give who have promised a crown?
O, first I will give her a kiss.'
So I kissed her and brought her, my Dane, my Dane,
Through the waving wonderful crowd:
Thousands and thousands, they shouted amain.
Like mighty thunders and loud.
And they said, 'He is young, the lad we love,
The heir of the Isles is young:
How we deem of his mother, and one gone above,
Can neither be said nor sung.   'He brings us a pledge—he will do his part
With the best of his race and name;'—
And I will, for I look to live, sweetheart,
As may suit with my mother's fame.
# Poems by Felicia Dorothea Browne/To the Muse

TO THE MUSE.
Goddess of the magic lay,  Ever let me own thy sway;  Thine the sweet enchanting art,  To charm and to correct the heart;  To bid the tear of pity flow,  Sacred to thy tale of woe; Or raise the lovely smile of pleasure, With sportive animated measure.
 "Oh! Goddess of the magic lay,"  To thee my early vows I pay;  Still let me wander in thy train,  And pour the wild romantic strain.  Be mine to rove by thee inspir'd,  In peaceful vales, and scenes retir'd;  For in thy path, oh! heavenly maid,  The roses smile that never fade.
# Poems of Home and Country/To a Young Friend at Twenty-one

TO A YOUNG FRIEND AT TWENTY-ONE.
LIKE a swift racer, clear the lines That cross thy life's unfolding plan, And leave the plays that please the child, For toils that dignify the man.
The world before thee waits thy choice; The coming years to thee belong. With stern ambition climb the heights; Let hardships only make thee strong.
​Cleave to the good, the pure, the just; Be thy whole life a life of love; By noble thoughts and lofty aims, Thyself to men and God approve.
Love the dear land that gave thee birth,— The land thy fathers died to save; They, the real nobles of the earth, The true, the loyal, and the brave.
Walk in the footsteps of the wise; Frown on the wrong, the right defend; Spurn from thy soul all selfish aims; Do thy whole duty till the end.
So shalt thou leave a fragrant fame; Thy deeds thy monument shall raise; The world shall bless thy honored name, And men unborn shall speak thy praise.
# Poems of Home and Country/To a Young Maiden

TO A YOUNG MAIDEN.
AS blushing tints still mantle o'er the shell Whose tiny owner dwells in it no more; As fragrant rose-leaves to the traveller tell Where nodded in its pride the beauteous flower,— So may thy path through this fair world be strewn With sweet remembrances, to rouse and cheer The weary wanderer, gladly forced to own Where thou hast trod, a joy still lingers there.
September 12, 1872.
# Poems of Home and Country/Wave the Flag on high

WAVE THE FLAG ON HIGH.
Read at a Flag-raising in Chelsea, Mass., July 5, 1869.
WAVE the new flag, exultant, o'er the land; Spread out its folds of beauty toward the sea; Bid softest winds its blood-bought charms expand; Hail it with shouts,—the banner of the free!
Bears it the brilliant stripes of gleaming white?— Our cause is righteous, and our aim is pure. Bears it the red?—we battle for the right; Red beod may flow, but Freedom shall endure.
Bears it the blue?—to Heaven, our high appeal In Christian gratitude and faith we raise; And every star, a new-made State, shall seal Our fervent trust in God,—our joyful praise.
Count all the stars, the stripes,—both white and red,— Where'er on sea or land the flag is seen; They tell how God our growing States has led,— Stars, thirty-seven, and stripes, the "old thirteen."
Wave then, fair banner! men may pass away,— No mind can guess the changes yet to be,— But thou, in beauty, hold thy blessed way, Our flag of peace, our symbol of the free.
# Poems of Italy: selections from the Odes of Giosue Carducci/Before the Old Castle of Verona

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Green Adige, 'twas thus in rapid course And powerful, that thou didst murmur 'neath The Roman bridges sparkling from thy stream Thine ever-running song unto the sun, When Odoacer, giving way before The onrush of Theodoric, fell back, And midst the bloody wrack about them passed Into this fair Verona blond and straight Barbarian women in their chariots, singing Songs unto Odin; while the Italian folk Gathered about their Bishop and put forth To meet the Goths the supplicating Cross.
Thus from the mountains rigid with their snows, In all the placid winter's silver gladness To-day thou still, O tireless fugitive, Dost murmuring pass upon thy way, beneath The Scaligers' old battlemented bridge, Betwixt time-blackened piles and squalid trees, To far-off hills serene, and to the towers Whence weep the mourning banners for the day, Returning now, which saw the death of him Whom a free Italy first chose her king. Still, Adige, thou singest as of yore Thine ever-running song unto the sun.
I, too, fair river, sing, and this my song
Would put the centuries into little verse;
And palpitating to each thought, my heart
Follows the stanza's upward-quivering flight.
But with the years, my verse will dull and fade;
Thou, Adige, the eternal poet art,
Who still—when of these hills the turret crown
Is shattered into fragments, and the snake
Sits hissing in the sunlight where now stands
The great basilica, St. Zeno's fane—
Still in the desert solitudes wilt voice
The sleepless tedium of the infinite.

## Notes

​Printed among the "Odi Barbare" of 1889. The castle, before the frowning walls of which the poet is meditating, stands by the river Adige—which here flows through Verona—and was long the home of the great Veronese family of the Scaligers. The Church of St. Zeno, to which reference is made in the last stanza, is noted as one of the finest examples of the Romanesque in northern Italy.
# Poems of Italy: selections from the Odes of Giosue Carducci/In the Piazza of San Petronio

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DARK in the winter's crystal air arise Bologna's turrets, and above them laughs The mountain-slope all whitened by the snows.
It is that mellowest hour when the sun His dying salutation on the towers And, Saint Petronius, on thy temple sheds,—
Towers whose battlements the broad-spread wings Of many passing centuries have grazed, And the grave temple's solitary peak.
The adamantine sky is gleaming cold In its refulgence, and the air is drawn O'er the piazza like a silver veil
That lightly brushes with caressing touch The threatening piles, whose grim walls gather round, Raised by our fathers' mail-encircled arms.
Still lingering on the mountain heights, the sun Looks o'er the scene; and languidly his smile Falls with suffusing tint of violet
On the grey building stones and on the dark Vermilion brick, and seems to waken there The living soul of vanished centuries;
And wakens in the rigid winter air A melancholy yearning for the glow Of spring-times past, of warm and festal eves,
When here in the piazza used to dance The beauteous women, and in triumph home Returned the Consuls with their captive kings.
Thus in her flight the Muse is laughing back Upon the verse in which vain longing throbs For all the antique beauty that is gone.

## Notes

​One of Carducci's most delicate bits of impressionism. The glamour which the sun's "dying salutation" sheds on the grim towers and solemn church of dark-turreted Bologna, hangs like a golden haze over the whole poem; and in the last stanza one may feel the intensity of the poet's yearning for that antique beauty which has vanished with a vanished time.
# Poems of Home and Country/Wild Strawberries

WILD STRAWBERRIES.
IN the thick and grassy wood, Where the sunny streaks are breaking, And the birds their songs are waking, Where the mossy flowers repose, There the pretty strawberry crows.
Pretty strawberry, fresh and sweet, Say who made your cheek so shining, Like the crimson sun declining, And who made your pleasant smell,— Tell me, pretty strawherry, tell?
It was God who made you so; God, your ruddy color brightens, And your charming odor heightens. Leafy pines, and firs so straight, Whisper, "Children, God is great."
# Poems of Italy: selections from the Odes of Giosue Carducci

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
POEMS OF ITALY
SELECTIONS
FROM THE ODES OF GIOSUE CARDUCCI
TRANSLATED, WITH AN INTRODUCTION,
BY
M. W. ARMS
THE GRAFTON PRESS
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1906, by The Grafton Press
Contents
* Giosue Carducci
* Before the Old Castle of Verona
* On the Death of the Prince Imperial
* In the Piazza of San Petronio
* Miramar
* To Giuseppe Garibaldi
* Rome
* Notes
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Poor White/Title page

* POOR WHITE
* A NOVEL BY
* SHERWOOD
* ANDERSON
* AUTHOR OF
* WINESBURG, OHIO
* NEW YORK B. W. HUEBSCH, Inc. MCMXX
COPYRIGHT, 1920, BY B. W. HUEBSCH. Inc.
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
# Poor little Heart!

Poor little Heart! Did they forget thee? Then dinna care! Then dinna care!
Proud little Heart! Did they forsake thee? Be debonnaire! Be debonnaire!
Frail little Heart! I would not break thee — Could'st credit me? Could'st credit me?
Gay little Heart — Like Morning Glory! Wind and Sun — wilt thee array!
# Poor White
### Contents

* Title page
* Dedication
* Book One
** Chapter I
** Chapter II
* Book Two
** Chapter III
** Chapter IV
** Chapter V
** Chapter VI
** Chapter VII
* Book Three
** Chapter VIII
** Chapter IX
** Chapter X
** Chapter XI
* Book Four
** Chapter XII
** Chapter XIII
** Chapter XIV
** Chapter XV
** Chapter XVI
** Chapter XVII
** Chapter XVIII
** Chapter XIX
** Chapter XX
* Book Five
** Chapter XXI
** Chapter XXII
** Chapter XXIII
# Poor White/Dedication

TO
TENNESSEE MITCHELL ANDERSON
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 54/November 1898/Correspondence

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THE MOON AND THE WEATHER.
Editor Popular Science Monthly:
Dear Sir: Scientific investigators in meteorology have again and again declared they have not been able to discover by accurate and long-continued observation that the moon has any effect whatever upon terrestrial weather; yet the farmers have, for unreckoned years, undoubtingly ascribed certain kinds of weather—changes, especially—to the moon; and, despite the dictum of the scientists, they have persisted in their confidence in the pale orb as a weather-breeder, and as a disposer, in a large degree, of the wet and dry features of the months.
Now comes Mr. H. H. Clayton, meteorologist at the Blue Hill Meteorological Observatory, and shows by diagram and dates that the electrical condition of the atmosphere varies in close accord with the position of the moon in her orbit.
That electricity performs various offices in the atmosphere, notably among the particles of vapor, is well known; but just how and to what extent atmospheric phenomena result from electrical action has not yet been clearly demonstrated. However, we have now a scientific basis for the assumption that the moon has an influence on the weather.
An interesting summary of present knowledge concerning the atmosphere is contained in Studies of the Upper Atmosphere, by A. Lawrence Rotch, director of the Blue Hill institution. The diagram of comparative altitudes, which forms the last illustration of my article on kite-flying, in the May number of this magazine, is from the frontispiece of Mr. Rotch's pamphlet just mentioned, for which credit was inadvertently omitted.
* George J. Varney.
* 57 Cornhill, Boston, August 19, 1898.
# Poetical Sketches

A typeset collection of William Blake's Poetry
* Poetical sketches by William Blake now first reprinted from the original edition of 1783, R H Shepherd ed., preface, 1868. London: Basil Montagu Pickering
* From the Poetical Sketches, D G Rossetti, ed., 1880. Life of William Blake, Volume 2 (selections). London: Macmillan & Co. pp. 1-25
* Poetical Sketches. W M Rossetti, ed., 1890. The poetical works of William Blake, lyrical and miscellaneous. Aldine edition. London: George Bell & sons.
* 'Poems from the Poetical Sketches', J Sampson, ed., (preface, variorum readings, notes and appendices), 1905 The poetical works of William Blake; a new and verbatim text from the manuscript engraved and letterpress originals, Oxford.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/Welsh Melodies

WELSH MELODIES.
REPRINTED HERE BY THE PERMISSION OF THE
PROPRIETOR, MR POWER OF LONDON.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/To the Mountain Winds

TO THE MOUNTAIN WINDS.
———How divine The liberty, for frail, for mortal man, To roam at large among unpeopled glens, And mountainous retirements, only trod By devious footsteps!— Regions consecrate To oldest time!—And, reckless of the storm That keeps the raven quiet in his nest, Be as a presence or a motion—One Among the many there. Wordsworth.
Mountain winds! oh! whither do ye call me?  Vainly, vainly would my steps pursue! Chains of care to lower earth enthral me,  Wherefore thus my weary spirit woo?
Oh! the strife of this divided being!  Is there peace where ye are borne on high? Could we soar to your proud eyeries fleeing,  In our hearts would haunting memories die?
Those wild places are not as a dwelling  Whence the footsteps of the loved are gone! Never from those rocky halls came swelling  Voice of kindness in familiar tone!
Surely music of oblivion sweepeth  In the pathway of your wanderings free; And the torrent, wildly as it leapeth,  Sings of no lost home amidst its glee.
There the rushing of the falcon's pinion,  Is not from some hidden pang to fly; All things breathe of power and stern dominion—  Not of hearts that in vain yearnings die.
Mountain winds! oh! is it, is it only  Where man's trace hath been that so we pine? Bear me up, to grow in thought less lonely,  Even at nature's deepest, loneliest shrine!
Wild, and mighty, and mysterious singers!  At whose tone my heart within me burns; Bear me where the last red sunbeam lingers,  Where the waters have their secret urns!
There to commune with a loftier spirit  Than the troubling shadows of regret; There the wings of freedom to inherit,  Where the enduring and the wing'd are met.
Hush, proud voices! gentle be your falling!  Woman's lot thus chainless may not be; Hush! the heart your trumpet sounds are calling,  Darkly still may grow—but never free!
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/To his Attendant

Book I. Ode XXXVIII.
TO HIS ATTENDANT.
I hate the Persian's costly pride; The wreaths with bands of Linden tied; These, boy, delight me not; Nor where the lingering roses bide, Seek thou for me the spot.
For me be nought but myrtle twined; The modest myrtle, meet to bind Alike thy brows and mine; While thus I quaff the bowl, reclined Beneath the o'erarching vine.
Original of theforegoing.
Persicos odi, puer, apparatus: Displicent nexæ philyrâ coronæ: Mitte sectari, rosa quo locorum Sera moretur. Simplici myrto nihil allabores Sedulus, curo. Neque te ministrum Dedecet myrtus, neque me sub arcta Vite bibentem.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/To the Sky

II.
TO THE SKY.
Far from the rustlings of the poplar bough,
Which o'er my opening life wild music made,
Far from the green hills with their heathery glow
And flashing streams whereby my childhood play'd;
In the dim city, midst the sounding flow
Of restless life, to thee in love I turn
O thou rich sky! and from thy splendours learn
How song-birds come and part, flowers wane and blow.
With thee all shapes of glory find their home,
And thou hast taught me well, majestic Dome!
By stars, by sunsets, by soft clouds which rove
Thy blue expanse, or sleep in silvery rest,
That Nature's God hath left no spot unbless'd
With founts of beauty for the eye of love.
# Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/To the Fountain of Bandusia

Book III. Ode XIII.
TO THE FOUNTAIN OP BANDUSIA.
Oh, worthy fragrant gifts of flowers and wine,  Bandusian fount, than crystal far more bright! To-morrow shall a sportive kid be thine,  Whose forehead swells with horns of infant might:
Ev'n now of love and war he dreams in vain, Doomed with his blood thy gelid wave to stain.
Let the red Dog-star burn!—his scorching beam,  Fierce in resplendence shall molest not thee! Still sheltered from his rage, thy banks, fair stream,  To the wild flock around thee wandering free, And the tired oxen from the furrowed field; The genial freshness of their breath shall yield.
And thou, bright Fount! ennobled and renowned,  Shall by thy poet's votive song be made; Thou and the oak with deathless verdure crowned,  Whose boughs, a pendant canopy, o'ershade Those hollow rocks, whence, murmuring many a tale, Thy chiming waters pour upon the vale.
Original of the foregoing.
O fons Bandusiæ, splendidior vitro, Dulci digne mero, non sine floribus,  Cras donaberis hædo;  Cui frons, turgida cornibus Primis, et Venerem et prœlia destinat: Frustra; nam gelidos inficiet tibi  Rubro sanguine rivos  Lascivi suboles gregis. Te flagrantis atrox hora Caniculæ Nescit tangere: tu frigus amabile  Fessis vomere tauris  Præbes, et pecori vago. Fies nobilium tu quoque fontium, Me dicente cavis impositam ilicem  Saxis, unde loquaces  Lymphæ desiliunt tuæ.