OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Main Street and other poems/The Proud Poet

THE PROUD POET
(For Shaemas O Sheel)
ONE winter night a Devil came and sat upon my bed, His eyes were full of laughter for his heart was full of crime. "Why don't you take up fancy work, or embroidery?" he said, "For a needle is as manly a tool as a pen that makes a rhyme!" "You little ugly Devil," said I, "go back to Hell For the idea you express I will not listen to: I have trouble enough with poetry and poverty as well, Without having to pay attention to orators like you.
"When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is woman's work You forget all the fighting poets that have been in every land. ​There was Byron who left all his lady-loves to fight against the Turk, And David, the Singing King of the Jews, who was born with a sword in his hand. It was yesterday that Rupert Brooke went out to the Wars and died, And Sir Philip Sidney's lyric voice was as sweet as his arm was strong; And Sir Walter Raleigh met the axe as a lover meets his bride, Because he carried in his soul the courage of his song.
"And there is no consolation so quickening to the heart As the warmth and whiteness that come from the lines of noble poetry. It is strong joy to read it when the wounds of the spirit smart, It puts the flame in a lonely breast where only ashes be. ​It is strong joy to read it, and to make it is a thing That exalts a man with a sacreder pride than any pride on earth. For it makes him kneel to a broken slave and set his foot on a king, And it shakes the walls of his little soul with the echo of God's mirth.
"There was the poet Homer had the sorrow to be blind, Yet a hundred people with good eyes would listen to him all night; For they took great enjoyment in the heaven of his mind, And were glad when the old blind poet let them share his powers of sight. And there was Heine lying on his mattress all day long, He had no wealth, he had no friends, he had no joy at all, ​Except to pour his sorrow into little cups of song, And the world finds in them the magic wine that his broken heart let fall.
"And these are only a couple of names from a list of a thousand score Who have put their glory on the world in poverty and pain. And the title of poet's a noble thing, worth living and dying for, Though all the devils on earth and in Hell spit at me their disdain. It is stern work, it is perilous work, to thrust your hand in the sun And pull out a spark of immortal flame to warm the hearts of men: But Prometheus, torn by the claws and beaks whose task is never done, Would be tortured another eternity to go stealing fire again."
# Main Street and other poems/The Robe of Christ

THE ROBE OF CHRIST
(For Cecil Chesterton)
AT the foot of the Cross on Calvary Three soldiers sat and diced, And one of them was the Devil And he won the Robe of Christ.
When the Devil comes in his proper form To the chamber where I dwell, I know him and make the Sign of the Cross Which drives him back to Hell.
And when he comes like a friendly man And puts his hand in mine, The fervour in his voice is not From love or joy or wine.
And when he comes like a woman, With lovely, smiling eyes, Black dreams float over his golden head Like a swarm of carrion flies.
​Now many a million tortured souls In his red halls there be: Why does he spend his subtle craft In hunting after me?
Kings, queens and crested warriors Whose memory rings through time, These are his prey, and what to him Is this poor man of rhyme,
That he, with such laborious skill, Should change from rôle to rôle, Should daily act so many a part To get my little soul?
Oh, he can be the forest, And he can be the sun, Or a buttercup, or an hour of rest When the weary day is done.
I saw him through a thousand veils, And has not this sufficed? Now, must I look on the Devil robed In the radiant Robe of Christ?
​He comes, and his face is sad and mild, With thorns his head is crowned; There are great bleeding wounds in his feet, And in each hand a wound.
How can I tell, who am a fool, If this be Christ or no? Those bleeding hands outstretched to me! Those eyes that love me so!
I see the Robe—I look—I hope— I fear—but there is one Who will direct my troubled mind; Christ's Mother knows her Son.
O Mother of Good Counsel, lend Intelligence to me! Encompass me with wisdom, Thou Tower of Ivory!
"This is the Man of Lies," she says, "Disguised with fearful art: He has the wounded hands and feet, But not the wounded heart."
​Beside the Cross on Calvary She watched them as they diced. She saw the Devil join the game And win the Robe of Christ.
# Main Street and other poems/The New School

THE NEW SCHOOL
(For My Mother)
THE halls that were loud with the merry tread of young and careless feet Are still with a stillness that is too drear to seem like holiday, And never a gust of laughter breaks the calm of the dreaming street Or rises to shake the ivied walls and frighten the doves away.
The dust is on book and on empty desk, and the tennis-racquet and balls Lie still in their lonely locker and wait for a game that is never played, And over the study and lecture-room and the river and meadow falls A stern peace, a strange peace, a peace that War has made.
​For many a youthful shoulder now is gay with an epaulet, And the hand that was deft with a cricket-bat is defter with a sword, And some of the lads will laugh to-day where the trench is red and wet, And some will win on the bloody field the accolade of the Lord.
They have taken their youth and mirth away from the study and playing-ground To a new school in an alien land beneath an alien sky; Out in the smoke and roar of the fight their lessons and games are found, And they who were learning how to live are learning how to die.
And after the golden day has come and the war is at an end, A slab of bronze on the chapel wall will tell of the noble dead. ​And every name on that radiant list will be the name of a friend, A name that shall through the centuries in grateful prayers be said.
And there will be ghosts in the old school, brave ghosts with laughing eyes, On the field with a ghostly cricket-bat, by the stream with a ghostly rod; They will touch the hearts of the living with a flame that sanctifies, A flame that they took with strong young hands from the altar-fires of God.
# Main Street and other poems/The White Ships and the Red

THE WHITE SHIPS AND THE RED
(For Alden March)
WITH drooping sail and pennant That never a wind may reach, They float in sunless waters Beside a sunless beach. Their mighty masts and funnels Are white as driven snow, And with a pallid radiance Their ghostly bulwarks glow.
Here is a Spanish galleon That once with gold was gay, Here is a Roman trireme Whose hues outshone the day. But Tyrian dyes have faded, And prows that once were bright With rainbow stains wear only Death's livid, dreadful white.
​White as the ice that clove her That unforgotten day, Among her pallid sisters The grim Titanic lay. And through the leagues above her She looked aghast, and said: "What is this living ship that comes Where every ship is dead?"
The ghostly vessels trembled From ruined stern to prow; What was this thing of terror That broke their vigil now? Down through the startled ocean A mighty vessel came, Not white, as all dead ships must be, But red, like living flame!
The pale green waves about her Were swiftly, strangely dyed, By the great scarlet stream that flowed From out her wounded side. ​And all her decks were scarlet And all her shattered crew. She sank among the white ghost ships And stained them through and through.
The grim Titanic greeted her "And who art thou?" she said; "Why dost thou join our ghostly fleet Arrayed in living red? We are the ships of sorrow Who spend the weary night, Until the dawn of Judgment Day, Obscure and still and white."
"Nay," said the scarlet visitor, "Though I sink through the sea, A ruined thing that was a ship, I sink not as did ye. For ye met with your destiny By storm or rock or fight, So through the lagging centuries Ye wear your robes of white.
​"But never crashing iceberg Nor honest shot of foe, Nor hidden reef has sent me The way that I must go. My wound that stains the waters, My blood that is like flame, Bear witness to a loathly deed, A deed without a name.
"I went not forth to battle, I carried friendly men, The children played about my decks, The women sang—and then— And then—the sun blushed scarlet And Heaven hid its face, The world that God created Became a shameful place!
"My wrong cries out for vengeance, The blow that sent me here Was aimed in Hell. My dying scream Has reached Jehovah's ear. ​Not all the seven oceans Shall wash away that stain; Upon a brow that wears a crown I am the brand of Cain."
When God's great voice assembles The fleet on Judgment Day, The ghosts of ruined ships will rise In sea and strait and bay. Though they have lain for ages Beneath the changeless flood, They shall be white as silver, But one—shall be like blood.
# Main Street and other poems/The Thorn

THE THORN
(For the Rev. Charles L. O'Donnell, C. S. C.)
THE garden of God is a radiant place, And every flower has a holy face: Our Lady like a lily bends above the cloudy sod, But Saint Michael is the thorn on the rosebush of God.
David is the song upon God's lips, And Our Lady is the goblet that He sips: And Gabriel's the breath of His command, But Saint Michael is the sword in God's right hand.
The Ivory Tower is fair to see, And may her walls encompass me! But when the Devil comes with the thunder of his might, Saint Michael, show me how to fight!
# Main Street and other poems/The Visitation

THE VISITATION
(For Louise Imogen Guiney)
THERE is a wall of flesh before the eyes Of John, who yet perceives and hails his King. It is Our Lady's painful bliss to bring Before mankind the Glory of the skies. Her cousin feels her womb's sweet burden rise And leap with joy, and she comes forth to sing, With trembling mouth, her words of welcoming. She knows her hidden God, and prophesies.
Saint John, pray for us, weary souls that tarry Where life is withered by sin's deadly breath. Pray for us, whom the dogs of Satan harry, Saint John, Saint Anne, and Saint Elizabeth. And, Mother Mary, give us Christ to carry Within our hearts, that we may conquer death.
# Main Street and other poems/The Snowman in the Yard

THE SNOWMAN IN THE YARD
(For Thomas Augustine Daly)
THE Judge's house has a splendid porch, with pillars and steps of stone, And the Judge has a lovely flowering hedge that came from across the seas; In the Hales' garage you could put my house and everything I own, And the Hales have a lawn like an emerald and a row of poplar trees.
Now I have only a little house, and only a little lot, And only a few square yards of lawn, with dandelions starred; But when Winter comes, I have something there that the Judge and the Hales have not, And it's better worth having than all their wealth—it's a snowman in the yard.
​The Judge's money brings architects to make his mansion fair; The Hales have seven gardeners to make their roses grow; The Judge can get his trees from Spain and France and everywhere, And raise his orchids under glass in the midst of all the snow.
But I have something no architect or gardener ever made, A thing that is shaped by the busy touch of little mittened hands: And the Judge would give up his lonely estate, where the level snow is laid For the tiny house with the trampled yard, the yard where the snowman stands.
They say that after Adam and Eve were driven away in tears To toil and suffer their life-time through, because of the sin they sinned, ​The Lord made Winter to punish them for half their exiled years, To chill their blood with the snow, and pierce their flesh with the icy wind.
But we who inherit the primal curse, and labour for our bread, Have yet, thank God, the gift of Home, though Eden's gate is barred: And through the Winter's crystal veil, Love's roses blossom red, For him who lives in a house that has a snowman in the yard.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 151/Issue 1952/One Lesser Jot

Originally published in Golden Hours.
What is the dearest happiness of heaven?  Ah, who shall say?  So many wonders, and so wondrous fair,  Await the soul who, just arrivèd there In trance of safety, sheltered and forgiven,  Opens glad eyes to front the eternal day.
Relief from earth's corroding discontent,  Relief from pain,  The satisfaction of perplexing fears,  Full compensation for the long, hard years; Full understanding of the Lord's intent,  The things that were so puzzling made quite plain.
And all astonished joy as to the spot,  From further skies  Crowd our belovèd with white wingèd feet,  And voices than the chiming harp more sweet Faces whose fairness we had half forgot,  And outstretched hands, and welcome in their eyes —
Heart cannot image forth the endless store  We may but guess.  But this one lesser joy I hold my own:  All shall be known in heaven; at last be known The best and worst of me; the less, the more.  My own shall know — and shall not love me less.
Oh, haunting shadowy dread which underlies  All loving here!  We inly shiver as we whisper low,  "Oh, if they knew — if they could only know, Could see our naked souls without disguise —  How they would shrink from us and pale with fear!"
The bitter thoughts we hold in leash within  But do not kill;  The petty anger and the mean desire,  The jealousy which burns — a smouldering fire — The slimy trail of half-unnoted sin,  The sordid wish which daunts the nobler will.
We fight each day with foes we dare not name.  We fight, we fail  Noiseless the conflict and unseen of men;  We rise, are beaten down, and rise again, And all the time we smile, we move, the same,  And even to dearest eyes draw close the veil.
But in the blessed heaven these wars are past;  Disguise is o'er  With new anointed vision face to face,  We shall see all, and clasped in close embrace Shall watch the haunting shadow flee at last,  And know as we are known, and fear no more.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 151/Issue 1952/Song

When fields were green and skies were clear,  And bluebells paved the woods of spring, I weighed the world against her tear,  And found her tear the dearer thing. But while I followed gain and fame,  And in the great world played my part, I changed; but she remained the same,  And now I think it broke her heart.
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 151/Issue 1957/Children's Christmas Hymn

Originally published in Sunday Magazine.
Children's Christmas Hymn
Written for a children's Christmas-day service
 I. Hark , the air is thrilling with the song we sing! Hark, the rafters echo! loud our voices ring! Higher still and higher every sound shall rise, Drawing ever nearer to the eternal skies.
 2. Would you know the meaning of our triumph song? 'Tis the joyous echo of the ages long. "Peace, good will!" was whispered very far away, Many a land is answ'ring, "Peace, good will!" to-day.
 3. Every voice we welcome joining in our strain, Till no lips are silent in the glad refrain; Gathering as a torrent rolling towards the sea; Lost at last in ocean's mighty harmony.
 4. Love most deep and tender is our theme to-day, Gazing at the manger where the Infant lay; Boyhood's noble promise in the man fulfilled; Perfect life completed — self forever stilled.
 5. Victory o'er temptation, life, and death, and time; Fortitude and courage, mercy's force sublime; Patience in privation, pain in silence borne; Grief, humiliation, crown of piercing thorn.
 6. Yet a man in all things — touchèd by our grief; Bruised for our transgressions; seeking our relief; Say, is He not worthy? Say, shall we not sing, Gladly, proudly giving homage to our King?
 7. Yes, with loud Hosanna rise our voices high, Through the azure distance, piercing to the sky; With our grateful praises heaven's high vault is riven, For to us a Son is born, a Child is given!
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 151/Issue 1957/"Bright is the Warm Morning"

"Bright is the Warm Morning"
Am leuchtenden Sommermorgen,  Geh' ich im Garten herum; Es flüstern und sprechen die Blumen,  Ich aber, ich wandle stumm.
Es flüstern und sprechen die Blumen,  Und schaun mitleidig mich an: "Sei unserer Schwester nicht böse,  Du trauriger, blasser Mann!"
Bright is the warm summer morning,  I wander the garden around; The flowers are whisp'ring and talking,  With sorrow my lips are fast bound.
The flowers are whisp'ring and talking,  With pity my anguish they trace: "Oh, be not unkind to our sister,  Thou man with the sad, pale face!"
# Littell's Living Age/Volume 151/Issue 1957/After All's Done

Originally published in Sunday Magazine.
After All's Done
"His wife asked where was his pain? Garfield answered, 'Darling, even to live is pain.'"
To, live was pain — to die is peace:  Falling asleep in tender arms,  Ended vain hopes, more vain alarms: Blind struggles for impossible ease.
Yes, life was loss, but death is gain;  The martyr's 'blood the Church's seed;  Die, Christian, to Christ's world-large creed Faithful till death — die, rise, and reign.
Reign, king-like, o'er the souls of men,  And shame them from the lust of gold,  From public honor bought and sold, From venal lies of tongue or pen.
Reign in the hearts of women brave,  Fit mothers of the men to be;  Like to the woman loved by thee, Whom God so loved, he would not save.
But thou art saved — her hero! Thine  The glorious rest of battle won;  A setting of the midday sun, And lo! the stars burst forth and shine.
No dull pale twilight of weak age,  Morn's glow forgot in misty night;  Thy record was full writ in light, And then — thine angel closed the page.
All's done — all said; the tale is told.  Across the ocean hands clasp hands;  One voice of weeping from far lands, Binds the New World unto the Old:
Then — silence; and we go our ways,  Work our small work for good or ill.  But thou, through whom the Master's will Was done, and didst it, to his praise,
Go straightway into eternal light!  On earth rank'd with the immortal dead, —  In heaven — that mystery none has read, We walk by faith and not by sight.
But this we know, or feel, half-known,  He who from evil brings forth good,  His message, although writ in blood, Has left upon thy burial stone.
# Manual of the Lodge/Appendixes/The Twenty-five Landmarks of Freemasonry

APPENDIX.
I.
THE TWENTY-FIVE LANDMARKS OF FREEMASONRY.
HE modes of recognition.
II. The division of symbolic Masonry into three degrees.
III. The legend of the third degree.
IV . The government of the fratenity by a presiding officer called a Grand Master, who is elected from the body of the craft.
V. The prerogative of the Grand Master to preside over every assembly of the craft, wheresoever and whensoever held.
VI. The prerogative of the Grand Master to grant dispensations for conferring degrees at irregular times.
VII. The prerogative of the Grand Master to grant dispensations for opening and holding Lodges.
VIII. The prerogative of the Grand Master to make Masons at sight.
IX. The necessity for Masons to congregate in Lodges.
X. The government of every Lodge by a Master and two Wardens.
XI. The necessity that every Lodge, when congregated, should be duly tiled.
​XII. The right of every Mason to be represented in all general meetings of the craft, and to instruct his representatives.
XIII. The right of every Mason to appeal from the decision of his brethren in Lodge convened to the Grand Lodge or General Assembly of Masons.
XIV. The right of every Mason to visit and sit in every regular Lodge.
XV. That no visitor, not known to some brother present as a Mason, can enter a Lodge without undergoing an examination.
XVI. That no Lodge can interfere in the business or labor of another Lodge.
XVII. That every Freemason is amenable to the laws and regulations of the Masonic jurisdiction in which he resides.
XVIII. That every candidate for initiation must be a man, free born and of lawful age.
XIX. That every Mason must believe in the existence of God as the Grand Architect of the Universe.
XX. That every Mason must believe in a resurrection to a future life.
XXI. That a book of the law of God must constitute an indispensable part of the furniture of every Lodge.
XXII. That all men in the sight of God are equal, and meet in the Lodge on one common level.
XXIII. That Freemasonry is a secret society, in possession of secrets that can not be divulged.
XXIV. That Freemasonry consists of a speculative science founded on an operative art.
XXV. That the Landmarks of Masonry can never be changed.
These constitute the Landmarks, or, as they have sometimes been called, "the body of Masonry," in which it is not in the power of any man, or body of men, to make the least innovation.
# Manual of the Lodge/Ancient Ceremonies of the Order/Regulations for Processions

SECTION IX.
REGULATIONS FOR PROCESSIONS.
HEN the Grand Master, Deputy Grand Master, or either of the Grand Wardens, joins the procession of a private Lodge, proper respect is to be paid to the rank of that officer. His position will be immediately before the Master and Wardens of the Lodge, and two Deacons will be appointed to attend him.
When the Grand or Deputy Grand Master is present, the Book of Constitutions will be borne before him. The honor of carrying this book belongs of right to the Master of the oldest Lodge in the jurisdiction, whenever he is present, in allusion to the fact that the Constitutions of the Order were originally vested in that officer, and that on him the business of the Grand Lodge devolves, in case of the absence of all the Grand officers, and also because it was a custom adopted soon after the reorganization of the Grand Lodge of England, for the Master of the oldest Lodge to attend every Grand Installation, and taking precedence of all others, the Grand Master only excepted, to deliver the Book of Constitutions to the newly installed Grand Master, thereby to remind him of his obligation to preserve the ancient landmarks and constitutions inviolate.
The Book of Constitutions must never be borne in a procession unless the Grand or Deputy Grand Master be present.
In entering public buildings, the Bible, Square, and Compasses, and the Book of Constitutions, are to be placed in front of the Grand Master, and the Grand Marshal and Grand Deacons must keep near him.
​When a procession faces inward, the Deacons and Stewards will cross their rods, so as to form an arch for the brethren to pass beneath.
Marshals are to walk or ride on the left flank of a procession. The appropriate costume of a Marshal is a cocked hat, sword, and scarf, with a baton in his hand. The color of the scarf must be blue in the procession of a Subordinate Lodge, and purple in that of the Grand Lodge.
All processions will return in the same order in which they set out.
The post of honor in a Masonic procession is always in the rear.
# Manual of the Lodge/Plates

ENTERED APPRENTICE.
FIRST AND SECOND SECTIONS.
ENTERED APPRENTICE.—FIRST AND SECOND SECTIONS.
ENTERED APPRENTICE.—THIRD SECTION.
ENTERED APPRENTICE.—THIRD SECTION.
ENTERED APPRENTICE.—THIRD SECTION.
ENTERED APPRENTICE.—THIRD SECTION.
ENTERED APPRENTICE.—THIRD SECTION.
ENTERED APPRENTICE.—THIRD SECTION.
FELLOW CRAFT.
FIRST SECTION.
FELLOW CRAFT.—SECOND SECTION.
FELLOW CRAFT.—SECOND SECTION.
FELLOW CRAFT.—SECOND SECTION.
FELLOW CRAFT.—SECOND SECTION.
MASTER MASON.
FIRST SECTION.
MASTER MASON.—SECOND SECTION.
MASTER MASON.—SECOND SECTION.
MASTER MASON.—SECOND SECTION.
MASTER MASON.—SECOND SECTION.
MASTER MASON.—THIRD SECTION.
MASTER MASON.—THIRD SECTION.
# Magic: A Fantastic Comedy/Characters
### The Characters

* The Duke
* DOCTOR GRIMTHORPE
* THE REV. CYRIL SMITH
* MORRIS CARLEON
* HASTINGS, the Duke's Secretary
* THE STRANGER
* PATRICIA CARLEON
The action takes place in the Duke's Drawing-room.