OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems by Wilfred Owen/The Sentry

THE SENTRY
We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew, And gave us hell; for shell on frantic shell Hammered on top, but never quite burst through. Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime, Kept slush waist-high and rising hour by hour, Choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb. What murk of air remained stank old, and sour With fumes from whizz-bangs, and the smell of men Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den, If not their corpses.... There we herded from the blast Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last. Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles. And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping And sploshing in the flood, deluging muck— The sentry's body; then, his rifle, handles Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck. We dredged him up, for dead, until he whined. "O sir, my eyes—I'm blind—I'm blind, I'm blind!" Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids And said if he could see the least blurred light He was not blind; in time they'd get all right. "I can't," he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there In posting next for duty, and sending a scout To beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering about To other posts under the shrieking air.
Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed, And one who would have drowned himself for good,— I try not to remember these things now. Let dread hark back for one word only: how Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps, And the wild chattering of his broken teeth, Renewed most horribly whenever crumps Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath— Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout "I see your lights!" But ours had long died out.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Experience

III
ELEMENTS AND MOTTOES
EXPERIENCE
The lords of life, the lords of life,— I saw them pass In their own guise, Like and unlike, Portly and grim,— Use and Surprise, Surface and Dream, Succession swift and spectral Wrong, Temperament without a tongue, And the inventor of the game Omnipresent without name;— Some to see, some to be guessed, They marched from east to west: Little man, least of all, Among the legs of his guardians tall, Walked about with puzzled look. Him by the hand dear Nature took, Dearest Nature, strong and kind, Whispered, 'Darling, never mind! To-morrow they will wear another face, The founder thou; these are thy race!'
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Friendship

FRIENDSHIP
A ruddy drop of manly blood The surging sea outweighs, The world uncertain comes and goes; The lover rooted stays. I fancied he was fled,— And, after many a year, Glowed unexhausted kindliness, Like daily sunrise there. My careful heart was free again, O friend, my bosom said, Through thee alone the sky is arched, Through thee the rose is red; All things through thee take nobler form, And look beyond the earth, The mill-round of our fate appears A sun-path in thy worth. Me too thy nobleness has taught To master my despair; The fountains of my hidden life Are through thy friendship fair.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Fable

FABLE
The mountain and the squirrel Had a quarrel, And the former called the latter 'Little Prig; Bun replied, 'You are doubtless very big; But all sorts of things and weather Must be taken in together, To make up a year And a sphere. And I think it no disgrace To occupy my place. If I 'm not so large as you, You are not so small as I, And not half so spry. I 'll not deny you make A very pretty squirrel track; Talents differ; all is well and wisely put; If I cannot carry forests on my back, Neither can you crack a nut.'
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Fame

FAME
Ah Fate, cannot a man Be wise without a beard? East, West, from Beer to Dan, Say, was it never heard That wisdom might in youth be gotten, Or wit be ripe before 't was rotten?
He pays too high a price For knowledge and for fame Who sells his sinews to be wise, His teeth and bones to buy a name, And crawls through life a paralytic To earn the praise of bard and critic.
Were it not better done, To dine and sleep through forty years; Be loved by few; be feared by none; Laugh life away; have wine for tears; And take the mortal leap undaunted, Content that all we asked was granted?
​But Fate will not permit The seed of gods to die, Nor suffer sense to win from wit Its guerdon in the sky, Nor let us hide, whate'er our pleasure, The world's light underneath a measure.
Go then, sad youth, and shine; Go, sacrifice to Fame; Put youth, joy, health upon the shrine, And life to fan the flame; Being for Seeming bravely barter And die to Fame a happy martyr.
1824.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Fate

FATE
Deep in the man sits fast his fate To mould his fortunes, mean or great: Unknown to Cromwell as to me Was Cromwell's measure or degree; Unknown to him as to his horse, If he than his groom be better or worse. He works, plots, fights, in rude affairs, With squires, lords, kings, his craft compares, Till late he learned, through doubt and fear, Broad England harbored not his peer: Obeying time, the last to own The Genius from its cloudy throne. For the prevision is allied Unto the thing so signified; Or say, the foresight that awaits Is the same Genius that creates.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Forbearance

FORBEARANCE
Hast thou named all the birds without a gun? Loved the wood-rose, and left it on its stalk? At rich men's tables eaten bread and pulse? Unarmed, faced danger with a heart of trust? And loved so well a high behavior, In man or maid, that thou from speech refrained, Nobility more nobly to repay? O, be my friend, and teach me to be thine!
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Forerunners

FORERUNNERS
Long I followed happy guides, I could never reach their sides; Their step is forth, and, ere the day Breaks up their leaguer, and away. Keen my sense, my heart was young, Right good-will my sinews strung, But no speed of mine avails To hunt upon their shining trails. On and away, their hasting feet Make the morning proud and sweet; Flowers they strew,—I catch the scent; Or tone of silver instrument Leaves on the wind melodious trace; Yet I could never see their face. On eastern hills I see their smokes, Mixed with mist by distant lochs. I met many travellers Who the road had surely kept; They saw not my fine revellers,— These had crossed them while they slept. Some had heard their fair report, In the country or the court. Fleetest couriers alive Never yet could once arrive, ​As they went or they returned, At the house where these sojourned. Sometimes their strong speed they slacken, Though they are not overtaken; In sleep their jubilant troop is near,— I tuneful voices overhear; It may be in wood or waste,— At unawares 't is come and past. Their near camp my spirit knows By signs gracious as rainbows. I thenceforward and long after Listen for their harp-like laughter, And carry in my heart, for days, Peace that hallows rudest ways.
# Poems (Emerson, Household Edition, 1904)/Freedom

FREEDOM
Once I wished I might rehearse Freedom's pæan in my verse, That the slave who caught the strain Should throb until he snapped his chain. But the Spirit said, 'Not so; Speak it not, or speak it low; Name not lightly to be said, Gift too precious to be prayed, Passion not to be expressed But by heaving of the breast: Yet,—wouldst thou the mountain find Where this deity is shrined, Who gives to seas and sunset skies Their unspent beauty of surprise, And, when it lists him, waken can Brute or savage into man; Or, if in thy heart he shine, Blends the starry fates with thine, Draws angels nigh to dwell with thee, And makes thy thoughts archangels be; Freedom's secret wilt thou know?— Counsel not with flesh and blood; Loiter not for cloak or food; Right thou feelest, rush to do.'
# Poems for Children Sigourney/The Imprisoned Bird

The Imprisoned Bird.
There you hang in your cage,
 Up in the green tree,
Looking as sad
 As a bird can be;
Gazing all day
 At your friends that fly,
Singing so gaily,
 From earth to sky.
The bright butterflies,
 And the beetles and bees,
Spread forth their light wings,
 And sport where they please.
But there you sit
 With a folded wing,
And a broken heart,
 Tho' you try to sing.
Might I open your prison
 And bid you go,
And build a nest
 As you us'd to do,—
And see you soar
 With a sparkling eye,
Abroad through the meadows
 So joyfully,—
And hear you pouring
 The song of the free,—
'T would be a great pleasure
 Sweet bird! to me.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/The Infant's Prayer

The Infant's Prayer.
A very young and lovely child in New-York, was found in prayer by her bed-side, for her little sick cousin. She was not able to say plainly, Elizabeth, which was the name of her dear playmate. So her prayer was, "please God, let Lilly live."
These two sweet children died within a short time of each other, of the same disease. It was the will of their Father in heaven, that they should live together with him.
The West had shut its gate of gold
 Upon the parted sun,
And through each window's curtaining fold
 Lamps glimmer'd one by one;
And many a babe had gone to rest,
And many a tender mothers breast
 Still lull'd its darling care,
When in a nursery's quiet bound,
With fond affections circled round,
 I heard an infant's prayer.
Yes, there it knelt,—its cherub face
 Uprais'd with earnest air;
And well devotion's heaven-born grace
 Became a brow so fair;
But seldom at our Father's throne
Such blest and happy child is known
 So painfully to strive;
For long with tearful ardor fraught,
That supplicating lip besought,—  "Please God, let Lilly live,"
And still the imploring voice did flow
 That little couch beside,
As if for "poor sick Lilly's" wo,  It could not be denied;
Even when the balm of slumber stole
With soothing influence o'er the soul,
 Like moon-light o'er the stream,
The murmuring tone, the sobbing strife,
The broken plea for Lilly's life,
 Mix'd with the infant dream.
So Lilly liv'd.—But not where time
 Is measur'd out by woes;
Not where cold winter chills the clime,
 Or canker eats the rose;
And she, who for that darling friend
In agonizing love did bend
 To pour the simple prayer,—
Safe from the pang, the groan, the dart,
That wound the mourning parent's heart,
 Lives with her Lilly there.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/The Lady Bug and the Ant

The Lady-Bug and the Ant.
The Lady-Bug sat in the rose's heart,
 And smil'd with pride and scorn,
As she saw a plain-drest Ant go by,
 With a heavy grain of corn;
So, she drew the curtains of damask round,
 And adjusted her silken vest,
Making her glass of a drop of dew
 That lay in the Rose's breast.
Then she laugh'd so loud, that the Ant look'd up,
 And seeing her haughty face,
Took no more notice, but travell'd on
 At the same industrious pace:—
But a sudden blast of Autumn came,
 And rudely swept the ground,
And down the rose with the Lady-Bug fell,
 And scatter'd its leaves around.
Then the houseless Lady was much amaz'd,
 For she knew not where to go,
And hoarse November's early blast
 Had brought both rain and snow,—
Her wings were chill, and her feet were cold,
 And she wish'd for the Ant's warm cell,—
And what she did when the winter came,
 I'm sure I cannot tell.
But the careful Ant was in her nest,
 With her little ones by her side,
She taught them all like herself to toil,
 Nor mind the sneer of pride,—
And I thought, as I sat at the close of day,
 Eating my bread and milk,
It was wiser to work and improve my time,
 Than be idle and dress in silk.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/The Last Day in the Year

The Last Day in the Year.
Oh Thou, who dwellest in the heavens,
 Whom angels love and fear,
Who giv'st us in thy tender love
To close another year,—
Did'st for our many daily wants
 Untiringly provide,
And grant us friends and parents dear
 Our thoughtless steps to guide,—
When sickness smote our feeble frames,
 Did'st take away our pain,
And even when others sought the grave,
 Restor'd our health again,—
And bade the lamp of knowledge shine
 With radiance full and free,
And sent thy holy Book to shew
 The path that leads to Thee,—
Oh! give us good and grateful hearts
 Thy mercy to adore,
And take our spirits, when we die,
 Where they can praise thee more.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/The Sabbath

The Sabbath.
The best of the days has come,
 The day our Creator blest,
And set an example to mark its hours
 By a sweet and holy rest.
'Tis a day to blessed thought
 And happy feelings given,
A day to study that Blessed Book
 Which shows the way to Heaven.
'Tis a day to hear of God,
 Of angels and saints above,
A day to learn how to fit our souls
 For their company of love.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/The Grave of a Child

13.The Grave of a Child.
Come, see the grassy bed
 Where our companion lies,
And, 'mid your tears, remember well,
 His buried dust shall rise.
The seed that sown in earth,
 Is hidden from the eye,
At length puts forth the leaf, the bud,
 The flower of radiant dye.
When wintry storms are past,
 Spring decks the verdant tree,
And at the resurrection morn,
 Such shall his rising be.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Thoughts at Sun-set

Thoughts at Sun-set.
The sun hath gone to rest,
 The bee forsakes the flower,
The bird doth hasten to its nest
 Within the leafy bower.
Where have I been this day?
 Into what follies run?
Forgive me, Father, when I pray
 Through Jesus Christ, thy Son.
When all my days are o'er,
 And in the tomb I rest,
Oh, may my happy spirit soar
 Up to a Saviour's breast.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/War

War.
War is a wicked thing,
 It strikes the strong man dead,
And leaves the trampled battle-field
 With blood and carnage red,
While thousand mangled forms
 In hopeless suffering bleed,
And vultures and hyenas throng
 Upon their flesh to feed.
See with what bitter grief
 Those widowed ones deplore;
And children for their father mourn,
 Who must return no more.
And aged parents sink
 In penury and despair,
And sorrow dwells in many a home,—
 War makes the weeping there.
It comes with sins and woes,
 A dark and endless train,
It fills the breast with murderous hate,
 Where Christian love should reign;
It desolates the land
 With famine, death and flame,
And those are in a sad mistake
 Who seek the warrior's fame.
Oh, may I guard my heart
 From every evil thing,
From thoughts of anger and revenge,
 Whence wars and fightings spring.
And may the plants of peace
 Grow up serene and fair,
And mark me for a child of heaven,
 That I may enter there.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Who made me?

POEMS FOR CHILDREN.
"Who made me?"
He, who spread out the sky,
That broad, blue canopy;
 Who made the glorious sun,
The moon to shine by night,
The stars with eye so bright,
 He made thee, little one.
He, who with care doth keep
The young birds while they sleep;
 And when their rest is done,
Doth guide them through the sky,
And feed them when they cry,
 He made thee, little one.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/The Pet-Lamb

The Pet-Lamb.
My Lamb, where hast thou been
 Roaming abroad all day?
Cropping thy food in pastures green,
 Where the bright waters play?
But of the sunny vale
 Thou 'rt weary now, I see,
So, thou may'st come and tell thy tale,  And rest thy head on me.
I have been sporting too,
 Where spring my favorite flowers,
Among the lilies fresh with dew,
 Among the vine-clad bowers,
And by yon crystal stream,
 Where droops the willow tree,
I sweetly slept, and had a dream,
 A pleasant dream of thee.
And music all around
 Was breathing when I woke,
From nest, and branch, and rose-deck'd bound,
 And from my lips it broke.
Why does thy bosom beat?
 Hath aught disturb'd thy peace?
Dear Lamb! have brambles torn thy feet,
 Or rent thy snowy fleece?
Come! I can soothe thy pain,
 If thou wilt tell me free,
And lull thee with that cooing strain,
 The young Dove taught to me.
Thou by my side shall run,
 Friend and companion dear,
For since thou hast no evil done,
 What evil need'st thou fear?
# Poems (Sherwin)/To april

POEMS.
# Poems (Sherwin)/Why art thou cast down

"Why art thou cast down, O my Soul? and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God." 42nd Psalm, 5th verse.
# Poems of Charles Baudelaire/The Balcony

The Balcony.
Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses,  O thou, my pleasure, thou, all my desire, Thou shalt recall the beauty of caresses,  The charm of evenings by the gentle fire, Mother of memories, mistress of mistresses!
The eves illumined by the burning coal,  The balcony where veiled rose-vapour clings— How soft your breast was then, how sweet your soul!  Ah, and we said imperishable things, Those eves illumined by the burning coal.
Lovely the suns were in those twilights warm,  And space profound, and strong life’s pulsing flood, In bending o’er you, queen of every charm,  I thought I breathed the perfume in your blood. The suns were beauteous in those twilights warm.
The film of night flowed round and over us,  And my eyes in the dark did your eyes meet; I drank your breath, ah! sweet and poisonous,  And in my hands fraternal slept your feet— Night, like a film, flowed round and over us.
# Poems of Charles Baudelaire/The Beacons

The Beacons.
Rubens, oblivious garden of indolence,  Pillow of cool flesh where no man dreams of love, Where life flows forth in troubled opulence,  As airs in heaven and seas in ocean move.
Leonard da Vinci, sombre and fathomless glass,  Where lovely angels with calm lips that smile, Heavy with mystery, in the shadow pass,  Among the ice and pines that guard some isle.
Rembrandt, sad hospital that a murmuring fills,  Where one tall crucifix hangs on the walls, Where every tear-drowned prayer some woe distils,  And one cold, wintry ray obliquely falls.
Strong Michelangelo, a vague far place  Where mingle Christs with pagan Hercules; Thin phantoms of the great through twilight pace,  And tear their shroud with clenched hands void  of ease.
The fighter’s anger, the faun’s impudence,  Thou makest of all these a lovely thing; Proud heart, sick body, mind’s magnificence:  Puget, the convict’s melancholy king.
Watteau, the carnival of illustrious hearts,  Fluttering like moths upon the wings of chance; Bright lustres light the silk that flames and darts,  And pour down folly on the whirling dance.
Goya, a nightmare full of things unknown ;  The fœtus witches broil on Sabbath night ; Old women at the mirror; children lone  Who tempt old demons with their limbs delight.
Delacroix, lake of blood ill angels haunt,  Where ever-green, o’ershadowing woods arise ; Under the surly heaven strange fanfares chaunt  And pass, like one of Weber’s strangled sighs,
And malediction, blasphemy and groan,  Ecstasies, cries, Te Deums, and tears of brine, Are echoes through a thousand labyrinths flown ;  For mortal hearts an opiate divine ;
A shout cried by a thousand sentinels,  An order from a thousand bugles tossed, A beacon o’er a thousand citadels,  A call to huntsmen in deep woodlands lost.
It is the mightiest witness that could rise  To prove our dignity, O Lord, to Thee; This sob that rolls from age to age, and dies  Upon the verge of Thy Eternity!
# Poems of Charles Baudelaire/The Dance of Death

The Dance of Death.
For he who has not folded in his arms A skeleton, nor fed on graveyard charms, Recks not of furbelow, or paint, or scent, When Horror comes the way that Beauty went.
O irresistible, with fleshless face, Say to these dancers in their dazzled race: “Proud lovers with the paint above your bones, Ye shall taste death, musk-scented skeletons!
Withered Antinoüs, dandies with plump faces, Ye varnished cadavers, and grey Lovelaces, Ye go to lands unknown and void of breath, Drawn by the rumour of the Dance of Death.
From Seine’s cold quays to Ganges’ burning stream, The mortal troupes dance onward in a dream; They do not see, within the opened sky, The Angel’s sinister trumpet raised on high.
In every clime and under every sun, Death laughs at ye, mad mortals, as ye run; And oft perfumes herself with myrrh, like ye; And mingles with your madness, irony!”
# Poems of Charles Baudelaire/The Eyes of Beauty

The Eyes of Beauty.
You are a sky of autumn, pale and rose ; But all the sea of sadness in my blood Surges, and ebbing, leaves my lips morose, Salt with the memory of the bitter flood.
In vain your hand glides my faint bosom o'er, That which you seek, beloved, is desecrate By woman’s tooth and talon ; ah, no more Seek in me for a heart which those dogs ate.
It is a ruin where the jackals rest, And rend and tear and glut themselves and slay— A perfume swims about your naked breast !
Beauty, hard scourge of spirits, have your way ! With flame-like eyes that at bright feasts have flared Burn up these tatters that the beasts have spared !
# Poems of Charles Baudelaire/The Ghost

The Ghost.
Softly as brown-eyed Angels rove I will return to thy alcove, And glide upon the night to thee, Treading the shadows silently.
And I will give to thee, my own, Kisses as icy as the moon, And the caresses of a snake Cold gliding in the thorny brake.
And when returns the livid morn Thou shalt find all my place forlorn And chilly, till the falling night.
Others would rule by tenderness Over thy life and youthfulness, But I would conquer thee by fright!
# Poems of Charles Baudelaire/Sunset

Sunset.
Fair is the sun when first he flames above, Flinging his joy down in a happy beam; And happy he who can salute with love The sunset far more glorious than a dream.
Flower, stream, and furrow!—I have seen them all In the sun’s eye swoon like one trembling heart— Though it be late let us with speed depart To catch at least one ray ere it fall!
But I pursue the fading god in vain,
For conquering Night makes firm her dark domain, Mist and gloom fall, and terrors glide between,
And graveyard odours in the shadow swim, And my faint footsteps on the marsh’s rim Bruise the cold snail and crawling toad unseen.
# Poems of Charles Baudelaire/The Death of Lovers

The Death of Lovers.
There shall be couches whence faint odours rise,
Divans like sepulchres, deep and profound;
Strange flowers that bloomed beneath diviner skies
The death-bed of our love shall breathe around.
And guarding their last embers till the end,
Our hearts shall be the torches of the shrine,
And their two leaping flames shall fade and blend
In the twin mirrors of your soul and mine.
And through the eve of rose and mystic blue
A beam of love shall pass from me to you,
Like a long sigh charged with a last farewell;
And later still an angel, flinging wide
The gates, shall bring to life with joyful spell
The tarnished mirrors and the flames that died.
# Poems of Charles Baudelaire/The Ideal

The Ideal.
Not all the beauties in old prints vignetted, Those worthless products of an outworn age, With slippered feet and fingers castanetted, The thirst of hearts like my heart can assuage.
To Gavarni, the poet of chloroses, I leave his troupe of beauties sick and wan; I cannot find among those pale, pale roses The red ideal mine eyes would gaze upon.
Lady Macbeth, the lovely star of crime, The Greek poet's dream born in a northern clime— Ah, she could quench my dark heart's deep desiring;
Or Michelangelo's dark daughter Night, In a strange posture dreamily admiring Your beauty fashioned for a giant's delight!
# Poems of Charles Baudelaire/The Evil Monk

The Evil Monk.
The ancient cloisters on their lofty walls  Had holy Truth in painted frescoes shown, And, seeing these, the pious in those halls  Felt their cold, lone austereness less alone.
At that time when Christ's seed flowered all around,  More than on monk, forgotten in his hour, Taking for studio the burial-ground,  Glorified Death with simple faith and power.
And my soul is a sepulchre where I, Ill cenobite, have spent eternity:  On the vile cloister walls no pictures rise.
O when may I cast off this weariness, And make the pageant of my old distress  For these hands labour, pleasure for these eyes?