OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# A Pretty Girl Is like a Melody

A song first composed by Irving Berlin in 1919.
I have an ear for music, And I have an eye for a maid. I link a pretty girlie, With each pretty tune that's played. They go together, Like sunny weather goes with the month of May. I've studied girls and music, So I'm qualified to say...
A pretty girl is like a melody That haunts you night and day, Just like the strain of a haunting refrain, She'll start up-on a marathon And run around your brain. You can't escape she's in your memory. By morning night and noon. She will leave you and then come back again, A pretty girl is just like a pretty tune.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1989, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 34 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.
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# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Prayer of a Soldier in France

PRAYER OF A SOLDIER IN FRANCE
MY shoulders ache beneath my pack (Lie easier, Cross, upon His back).
I march with feet that burn and smart (Tread, Holy Feet, upon my heart).
Men shout at me who may not speak (They scourged Thy back and smote Thy cheek).
I may not lift a hand to clear My eyes of salty drops that sear.
(When shall my fickle soul forget The Agony of Bloody Sweat!)
My rifle hand is stiff and numb (From Thy pierced palms red rivers come).
​Lord, Thou didst suffer more for me Than all the hosts of land and sea.
So let me render back again This millionth of Thy gift. Amen.
Joyce Kilmer
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Pierrot Goes to War

PIERROT GOES TO WAR
IN the sheltered garden, pale beneath the moon, (Drenched with swaying fragrance, redolent with June!) There, among the shadows, some one lingers yet— Pierrot, the lover, parts from Pierrette.
Bugles, bugles, bugles, blaring down the wind, Sound the flaming challenge—Leave your dreams behind! Come away from shadows, turn your back on June— Pierrot, go forward to face the golden noon!
In the muddy trenches, black and torn and still, (How the charge swept over, to break against the hill!) Huddled in the shadows, boyish figures lie— They whom Death, saluting, called upon to die.
Bugles, ghostly bugles, whispering down the wind— Dreams too soon are over, gardens left behind. Only shadows linger, for love does not forget— Pierrot goes forward—but what of Pierrette?
Gabrielle Elliot
October, 1917.
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Pipes in Arras

SCOTLAND
PIPES IN ARRAS
(April, 1917)
IN the burgh toun of Arras, When gloaming had come on, Fifty pipers played Retreat As if they had been one, And the Grande Place of Arras Hummed with the Highland drone!
Then to the ravaged burgh, Champed into dust and sand, Came with the pipers' playing, Out of their own beloved land, Sea-sounds that moan for sorrow On a dispeopled strand.
There are in France no voices To speak of simple things, And tell how winds will whistle Through palaces of kings; Now came the truth to Arras In the chanter's warblings:
"O build in pride your towers, But think not they will last; ​The tall tower and the shealing Alike must meet the blast, And the world is strewn with shingle From dwellings of the past."
But to the Grande Place, Arras, Came, too, the hum of bees, That suck the sea-pink's sweetness From isles of the Hebrides, And in Iona fashion Homes mid old effigies:
"Our cells the monks demolished To make their mead of yore, And still though we be ravished Each Autumn of our store, While the sun lasts, and the flower, Tireless we'll gather more."
Up then and spake with twitt'rings Out of the chanter reed, Birds that each Spring to Appin, Over the oceans speed, And in its ruined castles Make love again and breed:
"Already see our brothers Build in the tottering fane! Though France should be a desert, While love and Spring remain, Men will come back to Arras, And build and weave again."
So played the pipes in Arras Their Gaelic symphony, Sweet with old wisdom gathered In isles of the Highland sea, And eastward towards Cambrai Roared the artillery.
Neil Munro
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Place de la Concorde

PLACE DE LA CONCORDE
August 14, 1914
[Since the bombardment of Strasburg, August 14, 1870, her statue in Paris, representing Alsace, has been draped in mourning by the French people.]
NEAR where the royal victims fell In days gone by, caught in the swell Of a ruthless tide Of human passion, deep and wide: There where we two A Nation's later sorrow knew— To-day, O friend! I stood Amid a self-ruled multitude That by nor sound nor word Betrayed how mightily its heart was stirred.
​A memory Time never could efface— A memory of Grief— Like a great silence brooded o'er the place; And men breathed hard, as seeking for relief From an emotion strong, That would not cry, though held in check too long.
One felt that joy drew near— A joy intense that seemed itself to fear— Brightening in eyes that had been dull, As all with feeling gazed Upon the Strasburg figure, raised Above us—mourning, beautiful!
Then one stood at the statue's base and spoke— Men needed not to ask what word; Each in his breast the message heard, Writ for him by Despair, That evermore in moving phrase Breathes from the Invalides and Père Lachaise— Vainly it seemed, alas! But now, France looking on the image there, Hope gave her back the lost Alsace.
A deeper hush fell on the crowd: A sound—the lightest—seemed too loud (Would, friend, you had been there!) As to that form the speaker rose, Took from her, fold on fold, The mournful crape, grey-worn and old, Her, proudly, to disclose, And with the touch of tender care That fond emotion speaks, 'Mid tears that none could quite command, Placed the Tricolour in her hand, And kissed her on both cheeks!
Florence Earle Coates
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Red Poppies in the Corn

RED POPPIES IN THE CORN
I'VE seen them in the morning light, When white mists drifted by: I've seen them in the dusk o' night Glow 'gainst the starry sky. The slender waving blossoms red, Mid yellow fields forlorn: A glory on the scene they shed, Red Poppies in the Corn.
I've seen them, too, those blossoms red, Show 'gainst the Trench lines' screen. A crimson stream that waved and spread Thro' all the brown and green: ​I've seen them dyed a deeper hue Than ever nature gave, Shell-torn from slopes on which they grew To cover many a grave.
Bright blossoms fair by nature set Along the dusty ways, You cheered us, in the battle's fret, Thro' long and weary days: You gave us hope: if fate be kind, We'll see that longed-for morn, When home again we march and find Red Poppies in the Corn.
W. Campbell Galbraith
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Pierrot at War

PIERROT AT WAR
A YEAR ago in Carnival We danced till break of day; A year ago in Carnival The boulevards were gay; And roses shook the whispering air, Like a great sibilant soft fanfare.
In Carnival, in Carnival, A prince of Magic comes, To the sound of fifes, and the sound of horns, And the sound of little drums.
A year ago in Carnival, The lamps along the quays Lay softer on the misty night Than stars in leafy trees, And down the ribboned sparkling street Pierrot ran on twinkling feet.
Ah year! There is no Carnival: The north burns dusky red, And on the white of Pierrot's brow Is a long scar instead; While ever the muttering runs From the bleeding lips of the guns.
This year, this year at Carnival A Prince of Magic comes, With blood-red crest against the sky And a snarl of angry drums.
Maxwell Struthers Burt
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Princeton, May, 1917

PRINCETON MAY, 1917
HERE Freedom stood by slaughtered friend and foe, And, ere the wrath paled or that sunset died, Looked through the ages; then, with eyes aglow, Laid them to wait that future, side by side.
Now lamp-lit gardens in the blue dusk shine Through dogwood, red and white; And round the grey quadrangles, line by line, The windows fill with light, Where Princeton calls to Magdalen, tower to tower, Twin lanthorns of the law; And those cream-white magnolia boughs embower The halls of "Old Nassau."
The dark bronze tigers crouch on either side Where redcoats used to pass; And round the bird-loved house where Mercer died. And violets dusk the grass, By Stony Brook that ran so red of old, But sings of friendship now, To feed the old enemy's harvest fifty-fold The green earth takes the plough.
Through this May night, if one great ghost should stray With deep remembering eyes, Where that old meadow of battle smiles away Its blood-stained memories, If Washington should walk, where friend and foe Sleep and forget the past, Be sure his unquenched heart would leap to know Their souls are linked at last.
Be sure he walks, in shadowy buff and blue, Where those dim lilacs wave. He bends his head to bless, as dreams come true, The promise of that grave; Then, with a vaster hope than thought can scan, Touching his ancient sword, Prays for that mightier realm of God in man: "Hasten thy kingdom, Lord.
"Land of our hope, land of the singing stars, Type of the world to be, The vision of a world set free from wars Takes life, takes form from thee; ​Where all the jarring nations of this earth, Beneath the all-blessing sun, Bring the new music of mankind to birth, And make the whole world one."
And those old comrades rise around him there, Old foemen, side by side, With eyes like stars upon the brave night air, And young as when they died, To hear your bells, O beautiful Princeton towers, Ring for the world's release. They see you piercing like grey swords through flowers, And smile, from souls at peace.
Alfred Noyes
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Queenslanders

QUEENSLANDERS
LEAN brown lords of the Brisbane beaches, Lithe-limbed kings of the Culgoa bends, Princes that ride where the Roper reaches, Captains that camp where the grey Gulf ends— Never such goodly men together Marched since the kingdoms first made war; Nothing so proud as the Emu Feather Waved in an English wind before!
​Ardour and faith of those keen brown faces! Challenge and strength of those big brown hands! Eyes that have flashed upon wide-flung spaces! Chins that have conquered in fierce far lands!— Flood could not daunt them, Drought could not break them; Deep in their hearts is their sun's own fire; Blood of thine own blood, England, take them! These are the swords of thy soul's desire!
Will H. Ogilvie
# A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Reincarnation

REINCARNATION
I TOO remember distant golden days When even my soul was young; I see the sand Whirl in a blinding pillar towards the band Of orange sky-line 'neath a turquoise blaze— (Some burnt-out sky spread o'er a glistening land) —And slim brown jargoning men in blue and gold, I know it all so well, I understand The ecstasy of worship ages-old.
Hear the first truth: The great far-seeing soul Is ever in the humblest husk; I see How each succeeding section takes its toll In fading cycles of old memory. And each new life the next life shall control Until perfection reach Eternity.
E. Wyndham Tennant
Ramparts, Ypres, July, 1916.
# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 48

Chap. XLVIII.—Of a Man’s complex Strength, but first of the Arm.
The muscles which serve either to straighten or bend the arm, arise from the different processes of the Scapula; some of them from the protuberances of the Humerus, and others about the middle of the Os humeri. The extensors of the arm arise from behind, and the flexors from before.
That a man has more power in pulling than in pushing, has been proved by the ninth proposition De Ponderibus, where it is said, that of two equal ​weights, that will have the greatest power which is farthest removed from the pole or centre of its balance. It follows then of course, that the muscle N B, Plate II. and the muscle N C, being of equal power, the inner muscle N C, will nevertheless be stronger than the outward one N B, because it is inserted into the arm at C, a point farther removed from the centre of the elbow A, than B, which is on the other side of such centre, so that that question is determined. But this is a simple power, and I thought it best to explain it before I mentioned the complex power of the muscles, of which I must now take notice. The complex power, or strength, is, for instance, this, when the arm is going to act, a second power is added to it (such as the weight of the body and the strength of the legs, in pulling or pushing), consisting in the extension of the parts, as when two men attempt to throw down a column; the one by pushing, and the other by pulling.
* ↑ A treatise on weights, like many others, intended by this author, but never published.
* ↑ See the next chapter.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 51

Chap. LI.—Of the naked Body.
The members of naked men who work hard in different attitudes, will shew the muscles more strongly on that side where they act forcibly to bring the part into action; and the other muscles will be ​more or less marked, in proportion as they co-operate in the same motion.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 47

Chap. XLVII.—Of the Muscle between the Chest and the lower Belly.
There is a muscle which begins under the breast at the Sternum, and is inserted into, or terminates at the Os pubis, under the lower belly. It is called the Rectus of the Abdomen; it is divided, lengthways, ​into three principal portions, by transverse tendinous intersections or ligaments, viz. the superior part, and a ligament; the second part, with its ligaments; and the third part, with the third ligament; which last unites by tendons to the Os pubis. These divisions and intersections of the same muscle are intended by nature to facilitate the motion when the body is bent or distended. If it were made of one piece, it would produce too much variety when extended, or contracted, and also would be considerably weaker. When this muscle has but little variety in the motion of the body, it is more beautiful.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 49

Chap. XLIX.—In which of the two Actions, Pulling or Pushing, a Man has the greatest Power, Plate II.
A man has the greatest power in pulling, for in that action he has the united exertion of all the muscles of the arm, while some of them must be inactive when he is pushing; because when the arm is extended for that purpose, the muscles which move the elbow cannot act, any more than if he pushed with his shoulders against the column he means to throw down; in which case only the
London Published by J. Taylor High Holborn.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 45

Chap. XLV.—Of the Muscles.
The muscles of young men are not to be marked strongly, nor too much swelled, because that would indicate full strength and vigour of age, which they have not yet attained. Nevertheless they must be more or less expressed, as they are more or less employed. For those which are in motion are always more swelled and thicker than those which remain at rest. The intrinsic and central line of the members which are bent, never retains its natural length.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 46

Chap. XLVI.—The Extension and Contraction of the Muscles.
The muscle at the back part of the thigh shows more variety in its extension and contraction, than any other in the human body; the second, in that respect, are those which compose the buttocks; the third, those of the back; the fourth, those of the neck; the fifth, those of the shoulders; and the sixth, those of the Abdomen, which, taking their rise under the breast, terminate under the lower belly; as I shall explain when I speak of each.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 5

Chap. V.—Division of the Figure.
The form of bodies is divided into two parts; that is, the proportion of the members to each other, which must correspond with the whole; and the motion, expressive of what passes in the mind of the living figure.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 50

Chap. L.—Of the bending of Members, and of the Flesh round the bending Joint.
The flesh which covers the bones near and at the joints, swells or diminishes in thickness according to their bending or extension; that is, it increases at the inside of the angle formed by the bending, and grows narrow and lengthened on the outward side of the exterior angle. The middle between the convex and concave angle participates of this increase or diminution, but in a greater or less degree as the parts are nearer to, or farther from, the angles of the bending joints.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 52

Chap. LII.—Of a Ligament without Muscles.
Where the arm joins with the hand, there is a ligament, the largest in the human body, which is without muscles, and is called the strong ligament of the Carpus; it has a square shape, and serves to bind and keep close together the bones of the arm, and the tendons of the fingers, and prevent their dilating, or starting out.
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# A Treatise on Painting/Chapter 53

Chap. LIII.—Of Creases.
In bending the joints the flesh will always form a crease on the opposite side to that where it is tight.
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# A Recompense

“I raised my hands against my fate…”
* Shorter, Dora Sigerson (1893), "A Recompense" in Verses
* Shorter, Dora Sigerson (1907), "A Recompense" in The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter
# A Record of the Buddhist Religion as practised in India and the Malay Archipelago/Map

I-TSING'S ROUTE TO INDIA AND BACK, WITH SOME GEOGRAPHICAL NAMES MENTIONED IN HIS RECORD (A.D. 671-695).
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# A Reconstruction Letter

New York: Privately printed pages 1-13
A
RECONSTRUCTION
LETTER
New York PRIVATELY PRINTED 1866
One Hundred Copies, Octavo.
Bradstreet Press.
From the "Tribune," Sept. 3d, 1866.
"Cataract House," Sunday, Sept. 2, 1866.
To the Hon. Th-rl-w W—d, Room No. 11 A-t-r H—se, New York.
B-lly S-w-rd.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
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.
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# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Voulzie (Hégésippe Moreau)

THE VOULZIE.
HÉGÉSIPPE MOREAU.
Is there a river with more charms for a poet Than the Voulzie? I defy thee to show it. Is the Voulzie a stream with great islands? No, Its charm lies in its murmur—low, very low. The smallest of brooks, it knows hardly to flow. A giant athirst at a breath might drink all The Voulzie entire, from its source to its fall, The dwarf Oberon, who disports with its shells, Across it might leap without wetting his bells; But the Voulzie I love, and dearly I love, As pent in its flowers, with its dark woods above, With blackberries teeming, it hums monotone, For there on its banks I have wandered alone As a child. I' the shade of its forests profound I have given a language oft, oft to its sound; A schoolboy, poor, dreaming, whom men might call wild, But happy, so happy, and so undefiled. When my bread to the birds in pieces I threw, And pleased in wild circles around me they flew, The wave murmured, 'Hope, in days evil again, God this bread shall give back'—the promise was vain. Mine Egeria it was,—my loved oracle, At all my sorrows it said, 'Hope, child, 'tis well. Hope, hope thou and sing, and know never a fear, Thy mother and Camille shall ever be near.'
From the depths of my soul rang echoes out long, Responsive and faithful to that siren song. Chimeras! Where are they? Asleep, ah! asleep By the church where we prayed, in graves dark and deep. The sole friends that greet me when here I return Are corn-flowers and roses with dews in their urn, All the rest, or nearly all, have left me and gone: I long also to sleep, but still journey on. The thorns on the road mock my rags as I pass, It seems bordered with tombs of loved ones, alas! I played for a time on my lyre; then I fled. No echoes. 'Twas dreadful to sing to the dead. Delirious, I dashed into fragments the lyre And flung them afar. Once could soothe and inspire Those bits sacred of ivory; once they were kept And valued as treasures. . . . I thought and I wept. Still, O my Voulzie, I forgive thee, and sad In my own life, would have thy life ever glad. To love me I need so a kind confidant, To speak gently to me some friend I so want; To be cheated with hope so eager I pant, That ere my eyes close to the light of the day, Ere my vexed spirit from the earth glides away, I fain would revisit—God grant that I may!— Thy bank as a pilgrim that visits a shrine. How glad I should look on the green bushes in line, So dear to my childhood; or sleep to the voice Of the wild whistling reeds; or haply rejoice Over the future reinvested with hues From the rainbow's bright arch, and fresh with the dews Of the morn—a vision of beauty serene, Thou paintest, while prattling green borders between, Deceitful and fair as of frost-work a scene.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Sleeping Beauty (Louise-Victorine Ackermann)

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY.
MADAME ACKERMANN.
Sleep for a hundred years held fast A princess in a lonely wood, Springs, summers, autumns, winters past Successive, o'er that solitude. Time flew: all nature slept around, The breeze, it seemed, had lost its wing, And raised nor in the leaves a sound, Nor ripple in the brook or spring. The wild birds had forgot to sing, And on its green and fragile stem The rosebud red, half opening Remained half open, like a gem Through long mysterious years, nor shed A single leaflet all the time. What broke this sleep, of magic bred? You know the tale,—a prince was led By chance or destiny; he saw The Beauty in her sleep sublime, And then, and then, beneath the moon, Obedient to an unknown law, He kissed her lips, and broke her swoon. Blushing, confused, but with a smile, The princess woke in strange surprise.
Oh, strange illumined picture—scroll, Born of some poet's idle mood! We see thee daily with our eyes, Nor deem we see thee all the while! Love is the Wakening prince; the Soul The Sleeping Beauty of the wood.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Sower (Victor Hugo)

TO LITTLE JEANNE.
VICTOR HUGO.
Sitting in a porchway cool, Sunlight, I see, dying fast, Twilight hastens on to rule, Working hours have well-nigh past.
Shadows run across the lands: But a sower lingers still, Old, in rags, he patient stands, Looking on, I feel a thrill.
Black and high, his silhouette Dominates the furrows deep! Now to sow the task is set, Soon shall come a time to reap.
Marches he along the plain To and fro, and scatters wide From his hands the precious grain; Muse I, as I see him stride.
Darkness deepens. Fades the light. Now his gestures to mine eyes Are august; and strange,—his height Seems to touch the starry skies.
# A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/The Solitary Nest (Madame M. Desbordes-Valmore)

THE SOLITARY NEST.
MADAME M. DESBORDES-VALMORE.
Go, my soul; soar above the dark passing crowd, Bathe in blue ether like a bird free and proud, Go, nor return till face to face thou hast known The dream—my bright dream—unto me sent alone.
I long but for silence, on that hangs my life, Isolation and rest—a rest from all strife; And oh! from my nest unvexed by a sob To hear the wild pulse of the age round me throb.
The age flows like a river—on, on, and alas! It bears on its course, like dead sea-weeds, a mass Of names soiled with blood, broken vows, wishes vain, And garlands all torn, that shall bloom not again.
Go, my soul; soar above the world and the crowd, Bathe in blue ether, like a bird free and proud; Go, nor return till face to face thou hast known The dream—my bright dream—unto me sent alone.