OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Charles Baudelaire/The Flask

The Flask.
There are some powerful odours that can pass Out of the stoppered flagon; even glass To them is porous. Oft when some old box Brought from the East is opened and the locks And hinges creak and cry; or in a press In some deserted house, where the sharp stress Of odours old and dusty fills the brain ; An ancient flask is brought to light again, And forth the ghosts of long-dead odours creep. There, softly trembling in the shadows, sleep A thousand thoughts, funereal chrysalides, Phantoms of old the folding darkness hides, Who make faint flutterings as their wings unfold, Rose-washed and azure-tinted, shot with gold.
A memory that brings languor flutters here : The fainting eyelids droop, and giddy Fear Thrusts with both hands the soul towards the pit Where, like a Lazarus from his winding-sheet, Arises from the gulf of sleep a ghost Of an old passion, long since loved and lost.
So I, when vanished from man’s memory Deep in some dark and sombre chest I lie, An empty flagon they have cast aside, Broken and soiled, the dust upon my pride, Will be your shroud, beloved pestilence! The witness of your might and virulence, Sweet poison mixed by angels; bitter cup Of life and death my heart has drunken up !
# Poems (Taggart)/Evening

POEMS.
# Poems by "Cushag"/Longing

LONGING.
Oh! the woods of Ballaglass, and the Corna stream, I was there again just now in the sunset gleam, Oh! The rolling banks of shingle and the rock-hound shore, And the music of the waves' long roar.
Oh! the blaze of gorse and heather in the deep'ning glow, With their gold and purple mirrored in the pool below. And the shadows stealing upwards to the drawing night, And the ling'ring of the last low light.
All above the marshy meadows hung the dark pine trees Scarcely whispering their secrets to the lifting breeze. I could hear the cattle breathing by the low stone wall:– And Barrule to watch and ward o'er all.
Oh! the little lonely house on the Mooragh turf; With the sound of running water slipping down among the surf, I went in upon the door—but the hearth was bare, And the darkness of the night was there.
Then I wakened from my dream as the sun wenl down. And I'll wander never more on the Mooragh brown. For I'm far from Corna valley and the rock-bound shore. And I'll see the little house no more.
# Poems by "Cushag"/Glossary

GLOSSARY.
| Arrane | A song or ballad. |
| Beg or Veg | Little. |
| Bogh | Poor—term of endearment. |
| Bons | Bits of stick, charred gorse, &c., gathered for kindling a fire. |
| Carvel | A carol. |
| Chibber | A well. |
| Chiollagh | Hearth stone. |
| Cooag | The Cuckoo. |
| Cooish | Confidential chat or discourse. |
| Couth | The cold. |
| Cushag | Ragwort. |
| Dreem | Back. The ridge of a hill. |
| Eirey | Heir. |
| Earey | An open airy place. |
| Faie | Field near dwelling house. |
| Garvel (for 'Cabbyl') | A horse. |
| Gairey | Rough pasture land grown over with gorse. |
| Glass | Grey or green. |
| Howlaa | A spirit who wails on the sea-shore before storm. |
| Jeel | Harm. Mischief. |
| Kirree | Sheep. |
| Keill | Small ancient chapel or cell. |
| Lhiannoo | A child. |
| Loaghtan | The biown mountain sheep. |
| Lumpers | Hoys and girls. Probably a sailors' word. |
| Mannin or Vannin | Isle of Man. |
| Ma chree | My heart. |
| Meg | A lamb brought up by the hand. |
| Meein or Veen | Fine, soft—term of endearment. |
| Millish or Villish | Darling. |
| Mie or Vie | Good. |
| Mhellia | Harvest-Home. |
| Moar | Great. |
| Nogh | To-night. |
| Oie | Eve. |
| Oie'll Voirrey | Eve of the Feast of Mary. Christmas Eve. |
| Rhullick | Burial Ground. |
| Sceddan | Herring. |
| Sniaghthey | Snow. |
| Sooree | Courting. |
| Tramman | Elder Tree. |
| Tholtan | Ruined cottage or barn. |
| Treih | Sad. |
| Traa-di-liooar | Time enough. |
| Ushag | A bird. |
# Poems by "Cushag"/Great Store

"GREAT STORE."
TIRED an' oul' an' wore An' a lif' at these wans when I'm took! But the Lord will send in His own good time, That never His poor forsook.
The walls is goin' roun'
When I rise for to try for to dhress,
An' I'm forced to sit by the side of the bed
An' wait for the house to take ress!
I was middlin' smart for all Till the time when I fell in the Glen, Goin' up to supper the pigs, the sowles! An' the leg was bruk at me then.
The coul', the coul', an' the pain! An' the hollerin' out for Crowe;
An' the thought of the craythurs wantin' their mate,
An' it spilt at me all in the snow!
But Crowe came by at las',
Goin' home from the Ramsey mart,
"Them pigs will be wantin' their mate," I said,
When they got me home on the cart.
So that's the way it iss,
An' I'll never be sthrayin' far;
But we mus' have somethin' to keep us down,
The stubborn an' proud we are.
This wumman is good to me, too, An' I'm gettin' the bes' thass in, She was rared at me, an' me darter's chile, An' married on Dicky-the-Win'.
I'm tired an' oul' an' done! Nor able to stan' or to roam,
But it's only to wait for the Lord's own time,
An' He will be taking me Home.
# Poems by "Cushag"/Guillyn Veggey

GUILLYN VEGGEY
"THE LIL FALLAS."
I heard the Guillyn Veggey at the break of day. On a merry, merry morning in the month of May. They were hammering an' clamouring an' making such a din— An' yet there's fallas doubtin' that the like is in! Clink-a-link, link-a-link, link, link, lin, Clink-a-link, link-a-link, the hammers ring; Clink-a-link, link-a-link, ding, ding, ding— An' yet there's fallas doubtin' that the like is in!
They were hammering their barrels in the cooper's cave, Sending out the chips to meet the brimming wave. Working in the hollows of the Cushlin hill, Turning out their dandy boats an' tackle still. Clink-a-link, etc.
I heard them in the cave behind the waterfall, Merry voices echoed by the rocky wall; While the bay was covered by the chips that flew. And every chip became a boat with all its crew. Clink-a-link, etc.
Oh, lucky is the morning in the month of May, When you hear the Guillyn Veggey at the break of day, Hammering an' clamouring an' making such a din— For they know the herrin's coming, an' there's plenty in! Clink-a-link, link-a-link, link, link, lin, Clink-a-link, link-a-link, the hammers ring; Clink-a-link, link-a-link, ding, ding, ding, They know the herrin's coming, an' there's plenty in.
# Poems by "Cushag"/Country Courtship

COUNTRY COURTSHIP
JOHNNY an' me was sweethearts
Many a year gone by,
Stannin' aroun' in the haggart,
An' havin' a cooish on the sly.
Till "Mayry, Mayry, Mayry, where's the milk?"
An' "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, you'll be took!"
An' "Dear me heart, wherever is that gel!"
An' "bless me sowl, that Johnny should be shook!"   Johnny was goin' to market
With priddhas, an' butter, an' eggs,
An' of coorse I was runnin' to meet him,
Jus' for to soople me legs.
Then "Mayry, Mayry, Mayry! Where's that gel!"
An' "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny! Do you hear!"
An' "Bless me sowl, that Mayry should be shook!"
An' "Dear me heart what's keepin' Johnny theer!"   Johnny'd be firin' the chimley
With a wisp of gorse an' sthrow,
An' of coorse I was houlin' the matches
Jus' till he set it aglow.
But "Mayry, Mayry, Mayry, come you here!"
An' "Johnny, Johnny, John, come urrov that!"
An' "Dear me heart, wherever's Mayry gone!"
An' "What in all the worl' is them two at!"
Johnny an' me was married
Many a year ago,
An' a fine scutch of childher at us—
Ma word, how the lumpers grow!
Now its "Mayry, Mayry, Mayry, min' the chile,"
An' "Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, wipe your feet;"
An' I'm spendin' me time washin' dishes,
An' John is kep' running for meat!
# Poems by "Cushag"/Kate Cowle

KATE COWLE.
Grip me savadge, Miss Geargie, An' heis me up in bed, An' you can be radin' them texes The while I reddy me head.
Can ye see me hanksher, Miss Geargie? In the bed it's like it's los'. Aw well! the couth of the winter! Me legs is like sticks of fros'.
An' the rots is scraerpin', scraerpin'! Aw, it's time poor Kate was took— No, no, I'll not have no firin' For I cannot suffer the smook.
An' well—Are ye theer, Miss Geargie? I was dhramin' a dhrame in the night, When the win's took rest from their noisin' An' the say was middlin' quite.
An' the Lord Himself come down An' stud beside the bed, An' with thremblin' fear I heard Him speak: "Come urrov theer," He said.
"Come urrov theer, Kate Cowle," He said. "An' go you up on high, For such as you that's oul' and blind There's mansions in the sky."
An' through the roof an' through the clouds Like sthrailin' through a ford, An' singin' Glo—ry, Glo—ry, while The waves around us roared.
An' Glo—ry, Glo—ry, still we sang Up to the great White Throne— When suddently the Light went out An' I was here alone!
Are ye plentiful in pins, Miss Geargie, Them laps for me head is tore; Well, good everin'—You'll be rewahded; An' plaze pull to the door.
An' Glo—ry for ever Glo—ry An' a Light for the blind to see— An' a lil bit of pudden, Miss Geargie, If Mayry will spare it for me."
# Poems by "Cushag"/Little Boy-Beg

LITTLE BOY BEG
"WHERE are you going, little Boy Beg, With your little grey dog an' all?" "I'm going to look for the King an' Queen, To see will they cure me for all."
"Where will you find them, little Boy Beg, The King an' the Queen so high?" "I'll watch from the bank where the bluebell grows, To see will they ever pass by."
"How will you know them, little Boy Beg, When you've wandered many a mile?" "I'll know the King by his golden crown, An' the Queen by her lovely smile."
"How will they see you, little Boy Beg, With your poor little crutch an' all?" "I'll be houlin' my flow'rs an' makin' my bow, An' the Queen she'll see me for all."
"What will you say to them, little Boy Beg, When you stand at the carriage door," "I'll give them a flow'r, an' they'll touch my han', An' I'll never be lame no more."
An' that very same day the King came by, An' the Lady Queen she smiled; An' they tuk the flow'r from the little han', An' they put the cure on the child.
Now little Boy Beg can walk an' run With his little grey dog an' all. God bless the King and his lovely Queen— But he hadn't no crown for all!
# Poems by "Cushag"/Inasmuch

"INASMUCH."
A stranger passes this way at night When the earth is laid to rest: He pauses before each cottage door Like a long expected guest. Is it only a ray of the white moonlight That falls on the dewy ground? Or is it the gleam of a Kingly Robe That sheds such radiance round?
He pauses before each cottage door When the silence is still and deep: There are souls that work and souls that rest, And souls that must watch and weep. Is it only the track of the children's feet That has furrowed the roadway there? Or is it the print of a Piercéd Foot That was heavy with human care?
Then to those who weep, and to those who sleep, And to those who watch and wake, There comes the touch of a tender Hand For a suffering stranger's sake. Is it only the breath of the balsam pine That is filling the midnight vale? Or is it the balm of a Healing Calm That sweetens the perfumed gale?
For a stranger came to these gentle souls, And a sick heart craved for rest: They gave her their love and they gave her their care And they gave her of all their best. Is it only the wind in the waving pines Or the sound of the distant sea? Or is it the voice of the Stranger Guest— "Ye did it unto Me."
# Poems by "Cushag"/John the Priest

JOHN THE PRIEST.
John the Priest of Corna dale Late crowned with scholar's bays; Now sent to teach a rustic flock, Had cursed his dreary days.
Far on the slopes of North Barrule The Corna valley lies; And far remote the lonely keeil That seems so near the skies.
So few and simple were the folk And scattered through the vale— What honour should a scholar find In savage Corna dale?
Now John the Priest he laid him down Upon his pallet bare; And John he heard or dreamed he heard Soft voices in the air.
"Glory to God" they sang once more As heralds from on high; And John he rose or dreamed he rose, But nought could he espy.
Gray sheets of mist were rolling up, And pouring through the vale; When through a rift shone steps of gold— From Heaven to Corna dale.
And John he saw, or thought he saw, Or dreamed he thought he saw, His Master on those shining steps, And bowed himself in awe.
"My Corna sheep are dear to me As any in the fold, My Corna dale is near to me As Lebanon of old."
"Thine is the work to save these sheep, Thy glory let it be, For every soul in Corna dale Thou, John, wilt answer me!"
The cloud uplift: the sun sprang up And sparkled through the vale; A score of pearly smoke-wreaths rose To Heaven from Corna dale.
Then John the Priest stretched forth his hands And blessed the rising sun, And blessed the simple folk around, And taught them one by one.
No book nor scrip could there be found; But on rough slabs of rock He cut and graved as best he might The lessons for his flock.
And that himself should ne'er forget His vision in the vale, He carved—"Of all the sheep is John The Priest in Corna dale."
Far on the slopes of old Barrule Lone lies the ruined Keeil, And there the words of John the Priest In Runes are living still.
# Poems by "Cushag"/Oie'll Verrey

OIE'LL VOIRREY.
D’YOU min' them oul' Oie'll Voirreys with the hollan all in berries
An' the carvels goin' a singin' on the night?
An' Tommy Danny Quilliam an' quare oul’ Juan Illiam
With cannles in their fisses for the light?
An' marchin' up the aisle, singin' solium all the while
With all the parish listenin' to them there?
An' Pazon smilin' cheerful, but watchin' very keerful,
To keep the wans reminded where they were?
There was teens of cannles blazin', an' all the people gazin',
With Pazon's wans so studdy in the pew.
An' Church all titivated an' tasty decorated, An' tossed up middlin' stylish at them too.
An' Billy Boyde the Bithig an' Johnny Bob the Kithag,
Them wans was good thremendjus for the chune.
Pretendin' at a loss, jus' to give the choir a toss,
But sthrampin' to be at it very soon.
Wan time that I was workin' away at Cooil-ny-Eairkan,
Gettin' holly with the res' for the day;
So beat I was with slumber, an' carvels such a number,
That down upon the flure I slipped, an' lay.
When I wakened by an' by, the moon was in the sky,
An' all had gone an' lef me on the flure!
The freckened urrov massy! I swealed like any lassie,
Nor dursn't move an inch to rache the dhure!
For everywhere behoul' ye, black shaddas were aroun' me, Till I was jus' gone fainted with the fear.
An' thrue as I am talkin' I saw them shaddas walkin'
Like keepin' time with chunes I couldn't hear.
Though bein' Christmas mornin', or near enough the dawnin',
I might have knew they couldn't harm at all.
For isn't that night holy, that brought the Babe so lowly,
The very bases doin' obedience in their Stall?
But there I lay the freckened! Till one big shadda beckened,
Aw, then I cleant like lightning urrov that!
An comin' up the aisle, was Pazon, with a smile—
"Dear me," said he, "I had forgot me hat."
# Poems (Tynan)/Love's Trouble

A LOVER'S BREAST-KNOT
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/Friendship

FRIENDSHIP
'Friends, Romans, Countrymen, and Lovers.'
Let such pure hate still underprop Our love, that we may be Each other's conscience, And have our sympathy Mainly from thence.
We'll one another treat like gods, And all the faith we have In virtue and in truth, bestow On either, and suspicion leave To gods below.
​Two solitary stars— Unmeasured systems far Between us roll; But by our conscious light we are Determined to one pole.
What need confound the sphere?— Love can afford to wait; For it no hour 's too late That witnesseth one duty's end, Or to another doth beginning lend.
It will subserve no use, More than the tints of flowers; Only the independent guest Frequents its bowers, Inherits its bequest.
​No speech, though kind, has it; But kinder silence doles Unto its mates; By night consoles, By day congratulates.
What saith the tongue to tongue? What heareth ear of ear? By the decrees of fate From year to year, Does it communicate.
Pathless the gulf of feeling yawns; No trivial bridge of words, Or arch of boldest span, Can leap the moat that girds The sincere man.
​No show of bolts and bars Can keep the foeman out, Or 'scape his secret mine, Who entered with the doubt That drew the line.
No warder at the gate Can let the friendly in; But, like the sun, o'er all He will the castle win, And shine along the wall.
There 's nothing in the world I know That can escape from love, For every depth it goes below, And every height above.
​It waits, as waits the sky Until the clouds go by, Yet shines serenely on With an eternal day, Alike when they are gone, And when they stay.
Implacable is Love,— Foes may be bought or teased From their hostile intent, But he goes unappeased Who is on kindness bent.
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/A Winter Scene

A WINTER SCENE
The rabbit leaps, The mouse out-creeps, The flag out-peeps Beside the brook; The ferret weeps, The marmot sleeps, The owlet keeps In his snug nook.
The apples thaw, The ravens caw, The squirrels gnaw The frozen fruit. ​To their retreat I track the feet Of mice that eat The apple's root.
The snow-dust falls, The otter crawls, The partridge calls, Far in the wood. The traveller dreams, The tree-ice gleams, The blue-jay screams In angry mood.
The willows droop, The alders stoop, ​The pheasants group Beneath the snow. The catkins green Cast o'er the scene A summer's sheen, A genial glow.
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/Conscience

CONSCIENCE
Conscience is instinct bred in the house, Feeling and Thinking propagate the sin By an unnatural breeding in and in. I say, Turn it out doors, Into the moors. I love a life whose plot is simple, And does not thicken with every pimple, A soul so sound no sickly conscience binds it, That makes the universe no worse than 't finds it. I love an earnest soul, Whose mighty joy and sorrow Are not drowned in a bowl, And brought to life to-morrow ​That lives one tragedy, And not seventy; A conscience worth keeping, Laughing not weeping; A conscience wise and steady, And for ever ready; Not changing with events, Dealing in compliments; A conscience exercised about Large things, where one may doubt. I love a soul not all of wood, Predestinated to be good, But true to the backbone Unto itself alone, And false to none; Born to its own affairs, Its own joys and own cares; ​By whom the work which God begun Is finished, and not undone; Taken up where he left off, Whether to worship or to scoff; If not good, why then evil, If not good god, good devil. Goodness!—you hypocrite, come out of that, Live your life, do your work, then take your hat. I have no patience towards Such conscientious cowards. Give me simple laboring folk, Who love their work, Whose virtue is a song To cheer God along.
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/Greece

GREECE
When life contracts into a vulgar span, And human nature tires to be a man, I thank the Gods for Greece, That permanent realm of peace. For as the rising moon far in the night Chequers the shade with her forerunning light, So in my darkest hour my senses seem To catch from her Acropolis a gleam.
Greece, who am I that should remember thee, Thy Marathon, and thy Thermopylae? Is my life vulgar, my fate mean, Which on such golden memories can lean?
# Poems of Nature

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Poems of Nature."
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* Poems of Nature (1895), a poetry collection by Henry David Thoreau
* Poems of Nature (1886), a poetry collection by John Greenleaf Whittier
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/A River Scene

A RIVER SCENE
The river swelleth more and more, Like some sweet influence stealing o'er The passive town; and for a while Each tussock makes a tiny isle, Where, on some friendly Ararat, Resteth the weary water-rat.
No ripple shows Musketaquid, Her very current e'en is hid, As deepest souls do calmest rest, When thoughts are swelling in the breast, ​And she that in the summer's drought Doth make a rippling and a rout, Sleeps from Nahshawtuck to the Cliff, Unruffled by a single skiff. But by a thousand distant hills The louder roar a thousand rills, And many a spring which now is dumb, And many a stream with smothered hum, Doth swifter well and faster glide, Though buried deep beneath the tide.
Our village shows a rural Venice, Its broad lagoons where yonder fen is; As lovely as the Bay of Naples Yon placid cove amid the maples; And in my neighbour's field of corn I recognise the Golden Horn.
​Here Nature taught from year to year, When only red men came to hear; Methinks 'twas in this school of art Venice and Naples learned their part, But still their mistress, to my mind, Her young disciples leaves behind.
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/Boat Song

BOAT SONG
Thus, perchance, the Indian hunter, Many a lagging year agone, Gliding o'er thy rippling waters, Lowly hummed a natural song.
Now the sun 's behind the willows, Now he gleams along the waves, Faintly o'er the wearied billows Come the spirits of the braves.
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/Ding Dong

DING DONG
When the world grows old by the chimney-side, Then forth to the youngling nooks I glide, Where over the water and over the land The bells are booming on either hand.
Now up they go ding, then down again dong, And awhile they ring to the same old song, For the metal goes round at a single bound, A-cutting the fields with its measured sound, While the tired tongue falls with a lengthened boom As solemn and loud as the crack of doom.
​Then changed is their measure to tone upon tone, And seldom it is that one sound comes alone, For they ring out their peals in a mingled throng, And the breezes waft the loud ding-dong along.
When the echo hath reached me in this lone vale, I am straightway a hero in coat of mail, I tug at my belt and I march on my post, And feel myself more than a match for a host.
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/Free Love

FREE LOVE
My love must be as free As is the eagle's wing, Hovering o'er land and sea And everything.
I must not dim my eye In thy saloon, I must not leave my sky And nightly moon.
Be not the fowler's net Which stays my flight, And craftily is set T' allure the sight.
​But be the favoring gale That bears me on, And still doth fill my sail When thou art gone.
I cannot leave my sky For thy caprice, True love would soar as high As heaven is.
The eagle would not brook Her mate thus won, Who trained his eye to look Beneath the sun.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/Home-Thoughts from France

HOME-THOUGHTS FROM FRANCE
Wan, fragile faces of joy,
Pitiful mouths that strive
To light with smiles the place
We dream we walk alive,
To you I stretch my hands,
Hands shut in pitiless trance
In a land of ruin and woe,
The desolate land of France.
Dear faces startled and shaken,
Out of wild dust and sounds
You yearn to me, lure and sadden
My heart with futile bounds.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/In Piccadilly

IN PICCADILLY
Lamp-lit faces, to you What is your starry dew? Gold flowers of the night blue!
Deep in wet pavement's slime Mud-rooted is your fierce prime, To bloom in lust's coloured clime.
The sheen of eyes that lust, Which dew-time made your trust, Lights your passionless dust.