OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Patriotism/Everywhere in America

Everywhere in America
Not somewhere in America, but everywhere today, Where snow-crowned mountains hold their heads, the vales where children play, Beside the bench and whirring lathe, on every lake and stream And in the depths of earth below, men share a common dream— The dream our brave forefathers had of freedom and of right, And once again in honor’s cause, they rally and unite.
Not somewhere in America is love of country found, But east and west and north and south once more the bugles sound, And once again, as one, men stand to break their brother’s chains, And make the world a better place, where only justice reigns. The patriotism that is here, is echoed over there,
The hero at a certain post is on guard everywhere. O’er humble home and mansion rich the starry banner flies, And far and near throughout the land the men of valor rise.
The flag that flutters o’er your home is fluttering far away O’er homes that you have never seen. The same impulses sway The souls of men in distant states. The red, the white and blue Means to one hundred million strong, just what it means to you. The self-same courage resolute you feel and understand Is throbbing in the breasts of men throughout this mighty land. Not somewhere in America, but everywhere today, For justice and for liberty all free men work and pray.
# Poems of Patriotism/For Your Boy and Mine

For Your Boy and Mine
Your dream and my dream is not that we shall rest, But that our children after us shall know life at its best; For all we care about ourselves—a crust of bread or two, A place to sleep and clothes to wear is all that we’d pursue. We’d tramp the world on sunny days, both light of heart and mind, And give no thought to days to come or days we leave behind.
Your dream and my dream is not that we shall play, But that our children after us shall tread a merry way. We brave the toil of life for them, for them we clamber high, And if ’twould spare them hurt and pain, for them we’d gladly die. If we had but ourselves to serve, we’d quit the ways of pride And with the simplest joys of earth we’d all be satisfied.
The best for them is what we dream. Our little girls and boys Must know the finest life can give of comforts and of joys. They must be shielded well from woe and kept secure from care, And if we could, upon our backs their burdens we would bear. And so once more we rise today to face the battle zone That those who follow us may know the flag that we have known.
Your dream and my dream is not that we shall live; The greatest joys we hope to claim are those that we shall give. We face the heat and strife of life, its battle and its toil That those who follow us may know the best of freedom’s soil. And if we knew that by our death we’d keep that flag on high, For your boy and my boy how gladly we would die.
# Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States/To the Memory of Chas. B. Storrs

TO THE MEMORY OF CHAS. B. STORRS, LATE PRESIDENT OF WESTERN RESERVE COLLEGE.
'He fell a martyr to the interests of his colored brethren. For many months did that mighty man of God apply his discriminating and gigantic mind to the subject of Slavery and its remedy: and, when his soul could no longer contain his holy indignation against the upholders and apologists of this unrighteous system, he gave vent to his aching heart, and poured forth his clear thoughts and holy feelings in such deep and soul-entrancing eloquence, that other men, whom he would fain in his humble modesty acknowledge his superiors, sat at his feet and looked up as children to a parent.'—Correspondent of the 'Liberator,' 16th of 11th mo. 1833.
Thou hast fallen in thine armor— Thou martyr of the Lord!— With thy last breath crying—'Onward'! And thy hand upon thy sword. The haughty heart derideth, And the sinful lip reviles, But the blessing of the perishing Around thy pillow smiles! ​When to our cup of trembling The added drop is given— And the long-suspended thunder Falls terribly from Heaven,— When a new and fearful freedom Is proffered of the Lord To the slow-consuming famine— The Pestilence and Sword!—
When the refuges of Falsehood Shall be swept away in wrath, And the temple shall be shaken With its idol to the earth,— Shall not thy words of warning Be all remembered then? And thy now unheeded message Burn in the hearts of men?
Oppression's hand may scatter Its nettles on thy tomb, And even Christian bosoms Deny thy memory room— For lying lips shall torture Thy mercy into crime, And the slanderer shall flourish As the bay-tree for a time.
But, where the South-wind lingers On Carolina's pines— Or, falls the careless sunbeam Down Georgia's golden mines— ​Where now beneath his burthen The toiling slave is driven,— When now a tyrant's mockery Is offered unto Heaven,—
Where Mammon hath its altars Wet o'er with human blood, And Pride and Lust debases The workmanship of God— There shall thy praise by spoken, Redeemed from falsehood's ban, When the fetters shall be broken, And the slave shall be a man!
Joy to thy spirit, brother!— A thousand hearts are warm— A thousand kindred bosoms Are baring to the storm. What though red-handed Violence With secret Fraud combine, The wall of fire is round us— Our present Help was thine!
Lo—the waking up of nations, From Slavery's fatal sleep— The murmur of a universe— Deep calling unto deep!— Joy to thy spirit, brother!— On every wind of Heaven The onward cheer and summons Of Freedom's soul is given! ​Glory to God forever!— Beyond the despot's will The soul of Freedom liveth Imperishable still. The words which thou has uttered Are of that soul a part, And the good seed thou hast scattered Is springing from the heart.
In the evil days before us, And the trials yet to come— In the shadow of the prison, Or the cruel martyrdom— We will think of thee, O Brother! And thy sainted name shall be In the blessing of the captive, And the anthem of the free.
# Poems and Ballads (Swinburne)

POEMS AND BALLADS.
page
POEMS AND BALLADS.
BY
ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.
LONDON: JOHN CAMDEN HOTTEN, PICCADILLY. 1866.
page
london: savill and edwards, printers, chandos street, covent garden.
page
TO
MY FRIEND
EDWARD BURNE JONES
THESE POEMS
ARE AFFECTIONATELY AND ADMIRINGLY
DEDICATED.
page
CONTENTS.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems and Ballads

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Poems and Ballads."
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* Poems and Ballads (1866), by Algernon Charles Swinburne
* Poems and Ballads (1878, second series), by Algernon Charles Swinburne
* Poems and Ballads (1889, third series), by Algernon Charles Swinburne
# Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States/To the Memory of Thos. Shipley

TO THE MEMORY OF THOMAS SHIPLEY,
President of the Pennsylvania Abolition Society, who died on the 17th of the 9th mo. 1836, a devoted Christian and Philanthropist.
Gone to thy heavenly Father's rest— The flowers of Eden round thee blowing! And, on thine ear, the murmurs blest Of Shiloah's waters softly flowing! Beneath that Tree of Life which gives To all the earth is healing leaves— In the white robe of angels clad, And wandering by that sacred river, Whose streams of holiness make glad The city of our God forever!
Gentlest of spirits!—not for thee Our tears are shed—our sighs are given: Why mourn to know thou art a free Partaker of the joys of Heaven? ​Finished thy work, and kept thy faith In Christian firmness unto death: And beautiful, as sky and earth, When Autumn's sun is downward going, The blessed memory of thy worth Around thy place of slumber glowing!
But, wo for us! who linger still With feebler strength and hearts less lowly, And minds less steadfast to the will Of Him, whose every work is holy! For not like thine, is crucified The spirit of our human pride: And, at the bondsman's tale of wo, And, for the outcast and the forsaken, Not warm like thine, but cold and slow, Our weaker sympathies awaken!
Darkly upon our struggling way The storm of human hate is sweeping; Hunted and branded, and a prey, Our watch amidst the darkness keeping! Oh! for that hidden strength which can Nerve unto death the inner man! Oh! for thy spirit tried and true, And constant in the hour of trial— Prepared to suffer, or to do, In meekness and in self-denial. ​Oh, for that spirit meek and mild, Derided, spurned, yet uncomplaining— By man deserted and reviled, Yet faithful to its trust remaining. Still prompt and resolute to save From scourge and chain the hunted slave! Unwavering in the Truth's defence, Even where the fires of Hate are burning, Th' unquailing eye of innocence Alone up th' oppressor turning!
Oh—loved of thousands! to thy grave, Sorrowing of heart, thy brethren bore thee! The poor man and the rescued slave Wept as the broken earth closed o'er thee— And grateful tears, like summer rain, Quickened its dying grass again! And there, as to some pilgrim-shrine, Shall come, the outcast and the lowly, Of gentle deeds and words of thine, Recalling memories sweet and holy!
Oh for the death the righteous die! An end, like Autumn's day declining, On human hearts, as on the sky, With holier, tenderer beauty shining: As to the parting soul were given The radiance of an opening heaven! As if that pure and blessed light, From off th' Eternal altar flowing, Were bathing in its upward flight, The spirit to its worship going!
# Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States/To George Bancroft, Esq.

TO GEORGE BANCROFT, ESQ. AUTHOR OF THE WORCESTER DEMOCRATIC ADDRESS.
Friend of the poor!—go on— Speak for the Truth and Right! Onward—though hate and scorn Gloom round thee as the night. Speak—at each word of thine, Some ancient Fraud is riven— And through its rents of ruin shine The sunbeams and the heaven!
Speak—for thy voice will be Welcome in each abode, Where manhood's heart and knee Are bended but to God— Where honest bosoms hold Their holy birthright well— Where Freedom spurns at Mammon's gold— Where Man is not to sell! ​Speak—for the poor man's cause— For Labor's just reward— For violated laws Of nature and of God! Speak—let the Debtor hear Within his living grave! Speak—thunder in Oppression's ear, Deliverance to the slave!
Ay—speak—while there is time, For all a freeman's claim, Ere thought becomes a crime, And Freedom but a name! While yet the Tongue and Pen And Press are unforbid, And we dare to feel and act as men— Speak—as our fathers did!
The land we love ere long Shall kindle at thy call— Falsehood and chartered Wrong, And legal Robbery, fall: The proud shall not combine— The secret council cease— And underneath the sheltering vine Shall Labor dwell in peace!
Old Massachusetts yet Retains her earliest fires— Still on her hills are set The altars of her sires: ​Her 'fierce Democracies' Have yet their strength unshorn, And pampered Power ere long shall see Its Gaza-gates uptorn.
Perish shall all which takes From Labor's board and can— Perish shall all which makes A Spaniel of the Man! With freshened courage then, On to the glorious end— Ever the same as thou hast been— The poor man's fastest friend!
# Poems Written During the Progress of the Abolition Question In the United States/To William Lloyd Garrison

TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON
Champion of those who groan beneath Oppression's iron hand: In view of penury, hate and death, I see thee fearless stand. Still bearing up thy lofty bow, In the steadfast strength of truth, In manhood sealing well the vow And promise of thy youth.
Go on!—for thou hast chosen well; On in the strength of God! Long as one human heart shall swell Beneath the tyrant's rod. Speak in a slumbering nation's ear, As thou hast ever spoken, Until the dead in sin shall hear— The fetter's link be broken!
I love thee with a brother's love, I feel my pulses thrill, To mark thy spirit sour above The cloud of human ill. ​My heart hath leaped to answer thine, And echo back thy words, As leaps the warrior's at the shine And flash of kindred swords!
They tell me thou art rash and vain— A searcher after fame— That thou art striving but to gain A long enduring name— That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand, And steeled the Afric's heart, To shake aloft his vengeful brand, And rend his chain apart.
Have I not known thee well, and read Thy mighty purpose long! And watched the trials which have made Thy human spirit strong? And shall the slanderer's demon breath Avail with one like me, To dim the sunshine of my faith, And earnest truth in thee?
Go on—the dagger's point may glare Amid thy pathway's gloom— The fate which sternly threatens there, Is glorious martyrdom! Then onward with a martyr's zeal— Press on to thy reward— The hour when man shall only kneel, Before his Father—God.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/The soul unto itself

XV.
THE soul unto itself
Is an imperial friend, —
Or the most agonizing spy
An enemy could send.
Secure against its own,
No treason it can fear;
Itself its sovereign, of itself
The soul should stand in awe.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/The way I read a letter's this

VI.
THE way I read a letter's this: 'T is first I lock the door, And push it with my fingers next, For transport it be sure.
And then I go the furthest off To counteract a knock; Then draw my little letter forth And softly pick its lock.
Then, glancing narrow at the wall, And narrow at the floor, For firm conviction of a mouse Not exorcised before,
Peruse how infinite I am To -- no one that you know! And sigh for lack of heaven, — but not The heaven the creeds bestow.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/The nearest dream recedes unrealized

THE nearest dream recedes, unrealized.
The heaven we chase Like the June bee Before the school-boy Invites the race; Stoops to an easy clover— Dips—evades—teases—deploys; Then to the royal clouds Lifts his light pinnace Heedless of the boy Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.
Homesick for steadfast honey, Ah! the bee flies not That brews that rare variety.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/The one that could repeat the summer day

XXIX
THE one that could repeat the summer day Were greater than itself, though he Minutest of mankind might be. And who could reproduce the sun, At period of going down— The lingering and the stain, I mean— When Orient has been outgrown, And Occident becomes unknown, His name remain.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Till the End

XXXVL.
TILL THE END.
I SHOULD not dare to leave my friend,
Because — because if he should die While I was gone, and I — too late —
Should reach the heart that wanted me;
If I should disappoint the eyes
That hunted, hunted so, to see,
And could not bear to shut until
They "noticed" me — they noticed me;
If I should stab the patient faith So sure I'd come —
so sure I'd come,
It listening, listening, went to sleep
Telling my tardy name, —
My heart would wish it broke before, Since breaking then, since breaking then,
Were useless as next morning's sun, Where midnight frosts had lain!
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/The only ghost I ever saw

​POEMS. I9I
                X.
THE only ghost I ever saw
Was dressed in mechlin, —so;
He wore no sandal on his foot,
And stepped like flakes of snow.
His gait was soundless, like the bird,
But rapid, like the roe;
His fashions quaint, mosaic,
Or, haply, mistletoe.
His conversation seldom,
His laughter like the breeze
That dies away in dimples
Among the pensive trees.
Our interview was transient, — Of me, himself was shy;
And God forbid I look behind
Since that appalling day!
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/The thought beneath so slight a film

XIV.
THE thought beneath so slight a film
Is more distinctly seen, —
As laces just reveal the surge,
Or mists the Apennine.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Their height in heaven comforts not

XV.
Their height in heaven comforts not, Their glory nought to me; 'T was best imperfect, as it was; I'm finite, I can't see.
The house of supposition, The glimmering frontier That skirts the acres of perhaps, To me shows insecure.
The wealth I had contented me; If 't was a meaner size, Then I had counted it until It pleased my narrow eyes
Better than larger values, However true their show; This timid life of evidence Keeps pleading, "I don't know."
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/There is a shame of nobleness

XVI.
There is a shame of nobleness Confronting sudden pelf,— A finer shame of ecstasy Convicted of itself.
A best disgrace a brave man feels, Acknowledged of the brave,— One more "Ye Blessed" to be told; But this involves the grave.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/This merit hath the worst

XLIX.
THIS merit hath the worst,— It cannot be again. When Fate hath taunted last And thrown her furthest stone,
The maimed may pause and breathe, And glance securely round. The deer invites no longer Than it eludes the hound.
# Poems of cabin and field/Little Brown Baby

Little Brown Baby
# Poems of cabin and field

A collection of eight of Dunbar's poems, illustrated with photographs by the Hampton Institute Camera Club.
Poems of Cabin and Field
POEMS of CABIN and FIELD by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHS by the HAMPTON INSTITUTE CAMERA CLUB and decorations by ALICE MORSE DODD MEAD & COMPANY NEW YORK MDCCCC
Copyright, 1896–1899 byDodd, Mead & Co.All rights reserved
Copyright, 1895–1896
By The Century Company
University Press
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S.A.
To
Bishop Henry C. Potter
and with him the friends who were kind in my illness
Contents
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 1926, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 97 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.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems of cabin and field/Chrismus is a-Comin

Chris'mus is a-Comin'
# Poems of cabin and field/A Banjo Song

A Banjo Song
# Poems of Sidney Lanier/The Stirrup-Cup

Sidney Lanier composed this poem in 1877 while he was living in Tampa, Florida. A stirrup cup is a parting cup given by the Scottish Highlanders to guests when they are leaving and have their feet in the stirrups.
Death, thou’rt a cordial old and rare: Look how compounded, with what care! Time got his wrinkles reaping thee Sweet herbs from all antiquity.
David to thy distillage went, Keats, and Gotama excellent, Omar Khayyam, and Chaucer bright, And Shakespeare for a king-delight.
Then, Time, let not a drop be spilt: Hand me the cup whene’er thou wilt; ‘Tis thy rich stirrup-cup to me; I’ll drink it down right smilingly.
# Poems of Sidney Lanier/The Waving of the Corn

Sidney Lanier signed and dated this poem “West Chester, Pa., 1876.” See also Lanier’s poem “Corn.”
Ploughman, whose gnarly hand yet kindly wheeled Thy plough to ring this solitary tree  With clover, whose round plat, reserved a-field, In cool green radius twice my length may be—  Scanting the corn thy furrows else might yield, To pleasure August, bees, fair thoughts, and me,  That here come oft together—daily I,  Stretched prone in summer’s mortal ecstasy, Do stir with thanks to thee, as stirs this morn  With waving of the corn.
 Unseen, the farmer’s boy from round the hill Whistles a snatch that seeks his soul unsought,  And fills some time with tune, howbeit shrill; The cricket tells straight on his simple thought—  Nay, ’tis the cricket’s way of being still; The peddler bee drones in, and gossips naught;  Far down the wood, a one-desiring dove  Times me the beating of the heart of love: And these be all the sounds that mix, each morn,  With waving of the corn.
 From here to where the louder passions dwell, Green leagues of hilly separation roll:  Trade ends where yon far clover ridges swell. Ye terrible Towns, ne’er claim the trembling soul  That, craftless all to buy or hoard or sell, From out your deadly complex quarrel stole  To company with large amiable trees,  Suck honey summer with unjealous bees, And take Time’s strokes as softly as this morn  Takes waving of the corn.
# Poems of Sidney Lanier/To Charlotte Cushman

Sidney Lanier composed this poem in 1875. Lanier had been contracted to write a biography of Charlotte Cushman (1816–1876), an American actress, following her decease. Lanier composed three poems to be used in the biography: “To Charlotte Cushman” (this poem), “A Dedication. To Charlotte Cushman”, and “At First: To Charlotte Cushman”. Unfortunately the contract was cancelled upon the illness of a family friend who was to provide Lanier with the actress’ papers.
Look where a three-point star shall weave his beam Into the slumb’rous tissue of some stream, Till his bright self o’er his bright copy seem Fulfillment dropping on a come-true dream; So in this night of art thy soul doth show Her excellent double in the steadfast flow Of wishing love that through men’s hearts doth go: At once thou shin’st above and shin’st below. E’en when thou strivest there within Art’s sky (Each star must o’er a strenuous orbit fly), Full calm thine image in our love doth lie, A Motion glassed in a Tranquillity. So triple-rayed, thou mov’st, yet stay’st, serene— Art’s artist, Love’s dear woman, Fame’s good queen!
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 2/Move eastward, happy earth, and leave

Move eastward, happy earth, and leave Yon orange sunset waning slow: From fringes of the faded eve, O, happy planet, eastward go; Till over thy dark shoulder glow Thy silver sister-world, and rise To glass herself in dewy eyes That watch me from the glen below.
Ah, bear me with thee, lightly borne, Dip forward under starry light, And move me to my marriage-morn, And round again to happy night.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 2/Edward Gray

EDWARD GRAY.
Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town Met me walking on yonder way, "And have you lost your heart?" she said; "And are you married yet, Edward Gray?"
Sweet Emma Moreland spoke to me: Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: "Sweet Emma Moreland, love no more Can touch the heart of Edward Gray.
"Ellen Adair she loved me well, Against her father's and mother's will To-day I sat for an hour and wept, By Ellen's grave, on the windy hill.
"Shy she was, and I thought her cold, Thought her proud, and fled over the sea: Fill'd I was with folly and spite, When Ellen Adair was dying for me.
"Cruel, cruel the words I said! Cruelly came they back to-day: 'You're too slight and fickle,' I said, 'To trouble the heart of Edward Gray.'
"There I put my face in the grass— Whisper'd, 'Listen to my despair: I repent me of all I did: Speak a little, Ellen Adair!'
"Then I took a pencil, and wrote On the mossy stone, as I lay, 'Here lies the body of Ellen Adair; And here the heart of Edward Gray!'
"Love may come, and love may go, And fly, like a bird, from tree to tree: But I will love no more, no more, Till Ellen Adair come back to me.
"Bitterly wept I over the stone: Bitterly weeping I turn'd away: There lies the body of Ellen Adair! And there the heart of Edward Gray!"