OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# New Poems (Shorter)/The Six Sorrows

THE SIX SORROWS
There are six sorrows in my heart— Red Allen, Clare, and Joan, Sweet Bet, and Jock, and little Roy; Six sorrows all my own.
Red Allen was my first-born son, How dear he was to see, The first sweet babe—and now he lies Beneath the church-yard tree.
My little Clare, and pretty Joan, Sleep, too, in wind and rain, But never do I wake at night To wish them home again. Oh, never do I wake at night To call them home again.
I have three sorrows in my breast To drown my heart in tears, My Betty, Jock, and little Roy, To shade my waning years.
My sunshine Bet, she made her choice— A good man he, and true; And 'neath my fond contented eyes Their pretty courtship grew.
When, from the winding road, a foot Stole by my garden gate, And by my door a honey voice Did whisper long and late.
And oft a cloth of lavender Young pedlar John would bear, And oft a silken ribbon long To bind my child’s soft hair.
Oh, bitter was the secret shame He hid beneath his load, My sunshine Bet is far away Upon the gypsies' road. My pretty Bet has strayed away Upon the winding road.
I have two sorrows in my heart, To wear me night and day— My Jock, and little Roy, who runs Beside my knee at play.
My six-foot Jock, in all the town No lad was like to him, What mother's heart could hold my pride Though joy my eyes would dim.
Then I could weep but happy tears, They soothe not now my grief, The burning anguish of my heart Has quenched that font's relief.
One morn his brow on me did frown, His ready laugh grew still, Full late it was when he came home, In silence from the hill.
"Where have you been, my son so dear, So long, so late!" I cried, "To seek a little lamb who strayed Upon the bleak hill-side."
"What dyes so red, my child, my son, The plaid about your breast?" "'Tis where the wounded lamb did lie, And here its heart-beat pressed."
"There come four men about the gate. Their looks are stern and cold?" "They do but seek the little lamb That died beyond the fold."
"Then I shall make the window fast, And I shall bar the door; Oh, fear is bitter at my heart, And I can bear no more."
"You may not bar the oaken door, Nor make the window fast; But you shall pray for my lost soul, As long as life shall last."
"For I must go with those who wait About the door with me, Since I have slain my own false love Beneath the linden tree. Oh, I have slain my faithless love, Beneath the linden tree."
I have one sorrow in my heart, My Roy, who sleeps so sound. Oh, will the wide world call this babe,
Or holds the grave his shroud? Oh, shall I grieve his golden youth, Or weep him in his shroud?
I have six sorrows in my heart, Red Allen, Clare, and Joan, Sweet Bet, and Jock, and little Roy— Six sorrows all my own.
# New Poems (Yeats)/A Drunken Man's Praise of Sobriety

COME swish around, my pretty punk,
And keep me dancing still
That I may stay a sober man
Although I drink my fill.
Sobriety is a jewel
That I do much adore;
And therefore keep me dancing
Though drunkards lie and snore.
O mind your feet, O mind your feet,
Keep dancing like a wave,
And under every dancer
A dead man in his grave.
No ups and downs, my pretty,
A mermaid, not a punk;
A drunkard is a dead man,
And all dead men are drunk.
# New Poems (Shorter)/The Poisoned Arrow

THE POISONED ARROW
All wounded sore he lay upon my path, His piteous moans his woeful need confessed; I stooped to find his hurt with searching hand— A poisoned arrow pierced his panting breast.
He had a friend who dwelt beside the way, And, running swift, I called to him for aid: "Your comrade lies all wounded to his death; Some secret foe a havoc here has made."
Deaf to my call, I saw him crouch and creep, Screened in a laurel's shade, the leaves among He moved to pry and peer and pry again— Within his hand he held a bow unstrung.
# New Poems (Yeats)/A Crazed Girl

THAT crazed girl improvising her music. Her poetry, dancing upon the shore, Her soul in division from itself Climbing, falling she knew not where, Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship, Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing Heroically lost, heroically found.
No matter what disaster occurred She stood in desperate music wound, Wound, wound, and she made in her triumph Where the bales and the baskets lay No common intelligible sound But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea.'
# New Poems (Shorter)/When I Shall Rise

WHEN I SHALL RISE
When I shall rise, and full of many fears, Set forth upon my last long journey, lone, And leave behind the circling earth to go Amongst the countless stars to seek God's throne.
When in the vapourish blue I wander, lost, Let some fair paradise reward my eyes— Hill after hill, and green and sunny vale, As I have known beneath the Irish skies.
So on the far horizon I shall see No alien land but this I hold so dear— Killiney's silver sands, and Wicklow hills, Dawn on my frightened eyes as I draw near.
And if it be no evil prayer to breathe, Oh, let no stranger saint or seraphim Wait there to lead up to the judgment-seat, My timid soul with weeping eyes and dim.
But let them come, those dear and lovely ghosts, In all their human guise and lustihood, To stand upon that shore and call me home, Waving their joyful hands as once they stood— As once they stood!
# New Poems (Yeats)

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
* The Gyres
* Lapis Lazuli
* Imitated from the Japanese
* Sweet Dancer
* The Three Bushes
* The Lady's First Song
* The Lady's Second Song
* The Lady's Third Song
* The Lover's Song
* The Chambermaid's First Song
* The Chambermaid's Second Song
* An Acre of Grass
* What Then?
* Beautiful Lofty Things
* A Crazed Girl
* To Dorothy Wellesley
* The Curse of Cromwell
* Roger Casement
* The Ghost of Roger Casement
* The O'Rahilly
* Come Gather Round Me Parnellites
* The Wild Old Wicked Man
* The Great Day
* Parnell
* What Was Lost
* The Spur
* A Drunken Man's Praise of Sobriety
* The Pilgrim
* Colonel Martin
* A Model for the Laureate
* The Old Stone Cross
* The Spirit Medium
* Those Images
* The Municipal Galley Re-Visited
* Are You Content
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* For other renewal records of publications between 1922–1950, see the University of Pennsylvania copyright records.
* For all records since 1978, search the U.S. Copyright Office records.
Works published in 1938 could have had their copyright renewed in 1965 or 1966, i.e. between January 1st of the 27th year after publication or registration and December 31st of the 28th year. As this work's copyright was not renewed, it entered the public domain on January 1st, 1967.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1939, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 84 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.
It is imperative that contributors ascertain that there is no evidence of a copyright renewal before using this license. Failure to do so will result in the deletion of the work as a copyright violation.
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# New Poems (Yeats)/A Model for the Laureate

ON thrones from China to Peru All sorts of kings have sat That men and women of all sorts Proclaimed both good and great; And what's the odds if such as these For reason of the State Should keep their lovers waiting, Keep their lovers waiting.
Some boast of beggar-kings and kings Of rascals black and white That rule because a strong right arm Puts all men in a fright, And drunk or sober live at ease Where none gainsay their right, And keep their lovers waiting, Keep their lovers waiting.
The Muse is mute when public men Applaud a modern throne: Those cheers that can be bought or sold, That office fools have run, That waxen seal, that signature. For things like these what decent man Would keep his lover waiting, Keep his lover waiting?
# New Poems (Yeats)/An Acre of Grass

PICTURE and book remain, An acre of green grass For air and exercise, Now strength of body goes; Midnight, an old house Where nothing stirs but a mouse.
My temptation is quiet. Here at life's end Neither loose imagination, Nor the mill of the mind Consuming its rag and bone, Can make the truth known.
Grant me an old man's frenzy, Myself must I remake Till I am Timon and Lear Or that William Blake Who beat upon the wall Till Truth obeyed his call;
A mind Michael Angelo knew That can pierce the clouds, Or inspired by frenzy Shake the dead in their shrouds; Forgotten else by mankind, An old man's eagle mind.
# New Poems (Yeats)/Are You Content

I CALL on those that call me son, Grandson, or great-grandson, On uncles, aunts, great-uncles or great-aunts, To judge what I have done. Have I, that put it into words, Spoilt what old loins have sent? Eyes spiritualised by death can judge, I cannot, but I am not content.
He that in Sligo at Drumcliff Set up the old stone Cross, That red-headed rector in County Down, A good man on a horse, Sandymount Corbets, that notable man Old William Pollexfen, The smuggler Middleton, Butlers far back, Half legendary men.
Infirm and aged I might stay In some good company, I who have always hated work, Smiling at the sea, Or demonstrate in my own life What Robert Browning meant By an old hunter talking with Gods; But I am not content.
# New Poems (Shorter)/The Prayer

NEW POEMS
THE PRAYER
"Many worlds have I made," said the Good God, "But this is best of all," He slipped the round earth from His lap, Space held the circling ball.
"Six days have I laboured," said the Good God, "To make it very fair, And man and woman have I moulded fine, Set them together there.
"Open ye night’s windows," said the Good God, "For I would hear them pray," Up from the spinning globe there came Loud cries from far away.
"Into my hands deliver," cried the man, "The chast'ning of my foe, His vineyards grant me—his slaves and oxen, So shall I lay him low."
"Give to me strange beauty," said the young maid, "More fair than all to be, So I anoint my body and go forth To draw men’s hearts to me."
"Behold! this is not good," said the Lord God, "Nor made to My desire," Then cried His little Son, "I shall go forth, To save them from Thine ire." ·····"Oh, reach ye down your arms," said the Good God Unto the seraphim, "Lift up the broken body of My child For they have tortured Him."
"Open the windows of the night," said the Good God, "For I would hear them weep," Up from the spinning world’s tumultuous sound Man’s prayers imperious leap.
"Into my hands deliver," cried the man, "My foe to bend and break, Burst Thou his strongholds and his ships entomb, So I my vengeance take."
"Give to me rare beauty," said the young maid, "More fair than all to be, So I in silken raiment shall go forth To draw men’s souls to me."
# Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Series I/Volume V/On the Soul and its Origin/Book III/Chapter 4

Chapter 4 [IV.]—Victor’s Simile to Show that God Can Create by Breathing Without Impartation of His Substance.
“But,” you say, “when we inflate a bag, no portion of our nature or quality is poured into the bag, while the very breath, by the current of which the filled bag is extended, is emitted from us without the least diminution of ourselves.” Now, you enlarge and dwell upon these words of yours, and inculcate the simile as necessary for our understanding how it is that God, without any injury to His own nature, makes the soul out of His own self, and how, when it is thus made out of Himself, it is not what Himself is. For you ask: “Is this inflation of the bag a portion of our own soul? Or do we create human beings when we inflate bags? Or do we suffer any injury in anything at all when we impart our breath by inflation on diverse things? But we suffer no injury when we transfer breath from ourselves to anything, nor do we ever remember experiencing any damage to ourselves from inflating a bag, the full quality and entire quantity of our breath remaining in us notwithstanding the process.” Now, however elegant and applicable this simile seems to you, I beg you to consider how greatly it misleads you. For you affirm that the incorporeal God breathes out a corporeal soul,—not made out of nothing, but out of Himself,—whereas the breath which we ourselves emit is corporeal, although of a more subtle nature than our bodies; nor do we exhale it out of our soul, but out of the air through internal functions in our bodily structure. Our lungs, like a pair of bellows, are moved by the soul (at the command of which also the other members of the body are moved), for the purpose of inhaling and exhaling the atmospheric air. For, besides the aliments, solid or fluid, which constitute our meat and drink, God has surrounded us with this third aliment of the atmosphere which we breathe; and that with so good effect, that we can live for some time without meat and drink, but we could not possibly subsist for a moment without this third aliment, which the air, surrounding us on all sides, supplies us with as we breathe and respire. And as our meat and drink have to be not only introduced into the body, but also to be expelled by passages formed for the purpose, to prevent injury accruing either way (from either not entering or not quitting the body); so this third airy aliment (not being permitted to remain within us, and thus not becoming corrupt by delay, but being expelled as soon as it is introduced) has been furnished, not with different, but with the self-same channels both for its entrance and for its exit, even the mouth, or the nostrils, or both together.
# Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Series I/Volume V/On the Soul and its Origin/Book III/Chapter 6

Chapter 6.—The Simile Reformed in Accordance with Truth.
Well, now, you ought to have thought of all this when you were writing, and not to have brought God before our eyes in that favourite simile of yours, of inflated and inflateable bags, breathing forth souls out of some other nature which was already in existence, just as we ourselves make our breath from the air which surrounds us; or certainly you should not, in a manner which is really as diverse from your similitude as it is abundant in impiety, have represented God as either producing some changeable thing without injury, indeed, to Himself, but yet out of His own substance; or what is worse, creating it in such wise as to be Himself the material of His own work. If, however, we are to employ a similitude drawn from our breathing which shall suitably illustrate this subject, the following one is more credible: Just as we, whenever we breathe, make a breath, not out of our own nature, but, because we are not omnipotent, out of that air that surrounds us, which we inhale and discharge whenever we breathe and respire; and the said breath is neither living nor sentient, although we are ourselves living and sentient; so God can—not, indeed, out of His own nature, but (as being so omnipotent as to be able to create whatever He wills) even out of that which has no existence at all, that is to say, out of nothing—make a breath that is living and sentient, but evidently mutable, though He be Himself immutable.
# Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Series I/Volume V/On the Soul and its Origin/Book III/Chapter 8

Chapter 8 [VI.]—Victor’s Second Error. (See Above in Book I. 26 [XVI.].)
Do not, I pray you, believe, say, or teach that “Thus is God ever giving souls through infinite time, just as He who gives is Himself ever existent,” if you wish to be a catholic. For a time will come when God will not give souls, although He will not therefore Himself cease to exist. Your phrase, “is ever giving,” might be understood “to give without cessation,” so long as men are born and get offspring, even as it is said of certain men that they are “ever learning, and never coming to the knowledge of the truth.” For this term “ever” is not in this passage taken to mean “never ceasing to learn,” inasmuch as they do cease to learn when they have ceased to exist in this body, or have begun to suffer the fiery pains of hell. You, however, did not allow your word to be understood in this sense when you said “is ever giving,” since you thought that it must be applied to infinite time. And even this was a small matter; for, as if you had been asked to explain your phrase, “ever giving,” more explicitly, you went on to say, “just as He is Himself ever existent who gives.” This assertion the sound and catholic faith utterly condemns. For be it far from us to believe that God is ever giving souls, just as He is Himself, who gives them, ever existent. He is Himself ever existent in such a sense as never to cease to exist; souls, however, He will not be ever giving; but He will beyond doubt cease to give them when the age of generation ceases, and children are no longer born to whom they are to be given.

## Footnotes

* ↑ 2 Tim. iii. 7.
# Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Series I/Volume V/On the Soul and its Origin/Book III/Chapter 3

Chapter 3 [III.]—He Enumerates the Errors Which He Desires to Have Amended in the Books of Vincentius Victor. The First Error.
If you ask me what the particular errors are, you may read what I have written to our brethren, that servant of God Renatus, and the presbyter Peter, to the latter of whom you yourself thought it necessary to write the very works of which we are now treating, “in obedience,” as you allege, “to his own wish and request.” Now, they will, I doubt not, lend you my treatises for your perusal if you should like it, and even press them upon your attention without being asked. But be that as it may, I will not miss this present opportunity of informing you what amendments I desire to have made in these writings of yours, as well as in your belief. The first is, that you will have it that “The soul was not so made by God that He made it out of nothing, but out of His own very self.” Here you do not reflect what the necessary conclusion is, that the soul must be of the nature of God; and you know very well, of course, how impious such an opinion is. Now, to avoid such impiety as this, you ought so to say that God is the Author of the soul as that it was made by Him, but not of Him. For whatever is of Him (as, for instance, His only-begotten Son) is of the self-same nature as Himself. But, that the soul might not be of the same nature as its Creator, it was made by Him, but not of Him. Or, then, tell me whence it is, or else confess that it is of nothing. What do you mean by that expression of yours, “That it is a certain particle of an exhalation from the nature of God”? Do you mean to say, then, that the exhalation itself from the nature of God, to which the particle in question belongs, is not of the same nature as God is Himself? If this be your meaning, then God made out of nothing that exhalation of which you will have the soul to be a particle. Or, if not out of nothing, pray tell me of what God made it? If He made it out of Himself, it follows that He is Himself (what should never be affirmed) the material of which His own work is formed. But you go on to say: “When however, He made the exhalation or breath out of Himself, He remained at the same time whole and entire;” just as if the light of a candle did not also remain entire when another candle is lighted from it, and yet be of the same nature, and not another.

## Footnotes

* ↑ See above, Book i. 4 and Book ii. 5.
* ↑ Halitus (breath).
# Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Series I/Volume V/On the Soul and its Origin/Book IV

Book IV.
Addressed to Vincentius Victor.
He first shows, that his hesitation on the subject of the origin of souls was undeservedly blamed, and that he was wrongly compared with cattle, because he had refrained from any rash conclusions on the subject. Then, again, with regard to his own unhesitating statement, that the soul was spirit, not body, he points out how rashly Victor disapproved of this assertion, especially when he was vainly expending his efforts to prove that the soul was corporeal in its own nature, and that the spirit in man was distinct from the soul itself.

## Contents

* Chapter 1
* Chapter 2
* Chapter 3
* Chapter 4
* Chapter 5
* Chapter 6
* Chapter 7
* Chapter 8
* Chapter 9
* Chapter 10
* Chapter 11
* Chapter 12
* Chapter 13
* Chapter 14
* Chapter 15
* Chapter 16
* Chapter 17
* Chapter 18
* Chapter 19
* Chapter 20
* Chapter 21
* Chapter 22
* Chapter 23
* Chapter 24
* Chapter 25
* Chapter 26
* Chapter 27
* Chapter 28
* Chapter 29
* Chapter 30
* Chapter 31
* Chapter 32
* Chapter 33
* Chapter 34
* Chapter 35
* Chapter 36
* Chapter 37
* Chapter 38
* Chapter 39
# Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Series I/Volume V/On the Soul and its Origin/Book III/Chapter 5

Chapter 5.—Examination of Victor’s Simile: Does Man Give Out Nothing by Breathing?
Prove now yourself what I say, for your own satisfaction in your own case; emit breath by exhalation, and see whether you can continue long without catching back your breath; then again catch it back by inhalation, and see what discomfort you experience unless you again emit it. Now, when we inflate a bag, as you prescribe, we do, in fact, the same thing which we do to maintain life, except that in the case of the artificial experiment our inhalation is somewhat stronger, in order that we may emit a stronger breath, so as to fill and distend the bag by compressing the air we blow into it, rather in the manner of a hard puff than of the gentle process of ordinary breathing and respiration. On what ground, then, do you say, “We suffer no injury whenever we transfer breath from ourselves to any object, nor do we ever remember experiencing any damage to ourselves from inflating a bag, the full quality and entire quantity of our own breath remaining in us notwithstanding the process”? It is very plain, my son, if ever you have inflated a bag, that you did not carefully observe your own performance. For you do not perceive what you lose by the act of inflation by reason of the immediate recovery of your breath. But you can learn all this with the greatest ease if you would simply prefer doing so to stiffly maintaining your own statements for no other reason than because you have made them—not inflating the bag, but inflated yourself to the full, and inflating your hearers (whom you should rather edify and instruct by veritable facts) with the empty prattle of your turgid discourse. In the present case I do not send you to any other teacher than your own self. Breathe, then, a good breath into the bag; shut your mouth instantly, hold tight your nostrils, and in this way discover the truth of what I say to you. For when you begin to suffer the intolerable inconvenience which accompanies the experiment, what is it you wish to recover by opening your mouth and releasing your nostrils? Surely there would be nothing to recover if your supposition be a correct one, that you have lost nothing whenever you breathe. Observe what a plight you would be in, if by inhalation you did not regain what you had parted with by your breathing outwards. See, too, what loss and injury the insufflation would produce, were it not for the repair and reaction caused by respiration. For unless the breath which you expend in filling the bag should all return by the re-opened channel to discharge its function of nourishing yourself, what, I wonder, would be left remaining to you,—I will not say to inflate another bag, but to supply your very means of living?