OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Vision of the Maid of Orleans/Book 2

THE VISION
of
THE MAID OF ORLEANS.
THE SECOND BOOK.
* ↑ In the former edition I had substituted cable instead of camel. The alteration would not be worth noticing were it not for the circumstance which occasioned it. Facilius elephas per foramen acus, is among the Hebrew adages collected by Drusius; the same metaphor is found in two other Jewish proverbs, and this appears to determine the signification of καμηλος. Matt. 19. 24.
* ↑ The same idea, and almost the same words are in an old play by John Ford. The passage is a very fine one:Ay, you are wretched, miserably wretched, Almost condemn’d alive! There is a place, (List daughter!) in a black and hollow vault, Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, But flaming horror of consuming fires; A lightless sulphur, choak’d with smoaky foggs Of an infected darkness. In this place Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts Of never-dying deaths; there damned souls Roar without pity, there are gluttons fed With toads and adders; there is burning oil Pour'd down the drunkard's throat, the usurer Is forced to sup whole draughts of molten gold; There is the murderer for ever stabb'd, Yet can he never die; there lies the wanton On racks of burning steel, whilst in his soul He feels the torment of his raging lust. 'Tis Pity she's a Whore. I wrote this passage when very young, and the idea, trite as it is, was new to me. It occurs I believe in most descriptions of hell, and perhaps owes its origin to the fate of Crassus.After this picture of horrors, the reader may perhaps be pleased with one more pleasantly fanciful: O call me home again dear Chief! and put me To yoking foxes, milking of he-goats, Pounding of water in a mortar, laving The sea dry with a nutshell, gathering all The leaves are fallen this autumn—making ropes of sand, Catching the winds together in a net, Mustering of ants, and numbering atoms, all That Hell and you thought exquisite torments, rather Than stay me here a thought more. I would sooner Keep fleas within a circle, and be accomptant A thousand year which of ’em, and how far Outleap’d the other, than endure a minute Such as I have within. B. Jonson. The Devil is an Ass.
* ↑ During the siege of Jerusalem, “the Roman commander, with a generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism, laboured incessantly, and to the very last moment, to preserve the place. With this view, he again and again intreated the tyrants to surrender and save their lives. With the same view also, after carrying the second wall the siege was intermitted four days: to rouse their fears, prisoners, to the number of five hundred, or more were crucified daily before the walls; till space, Josephus says, was wanting for the crosses, and crosses for the captives.” From the Bampton Lectures of Ralph Churton. If any of my readers should enquire why Titus Vespasian, the Delight of Mankind, is placed in such a situation,—I answer, for “his generous clemency, that inseparable attendant on true heroism!
# Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Vision of the Maid of Orleans/Book 3

THE VISION
of
THE MAID OF ORLEANS.
THE THIRD BOOK.
* ↑ In the cabinet of the Alhambra where the Queen used to dress and say her prayers, and which is still an enchanting sight, there is a slab of marble full of small holes, through which perfumes exhaled that were kept constantly burning beneath. The doors and windows are disposed so as to afford the most agreeable prospects, and to throw a soft yet lively light upon the eyes. Fresh currents of air too are admitted, so as to renew every instant the delicious coolness of this apartment.From the sketch of the History of the Spanish Moors, prefixed to Florian's Gonsalvo of Cordova.
* ↑ “The grave matron does not perceive how time has impaired her charms, but decks her faded bosom with the same snow-drop that seems to grow on the breast of the Virgin.” P.H.
# Poems (Stephens)

POEMS
BY
Miss ELIZA J, STEPHENS,
of STEVENSON, CONN,
* The star of hope
* The lilies
* The Derby Extension
* Change
* The prodigal
* Coming from school
* Unsatisfied
* A day
* The exiled empress
* May
* Our heroes
* The stars
* Change
* Beautiful lives
* Are they with us?
* The sunbeam
* Summer is coming
* Recollections
* Compensation
* The lonely worshipper
* Retrospection
* Hereafter
* Invocation to hope
* Wrath and mercy
* Wandering
* Doubting
* Earth's treasures
* The old man's meditation
* The old deserted home
* World's fair greeting
* Childish dreams
* Hope
* Arbutus
* The lily of the valley
* Eventide
* Henry M. Stanley
* An old story
* Christmas
* The leather man
* The eye
* A visit to pleasant vale
* Be active
* The inquiry
* The old chestnut tree
* The new year
* The leaves
* Autumn
* Life
* Children
* Winter
* Believing
* Self
* Trials
* Be gentle, kind and true
* In the woods
* Under the snow
* Encouragement
* Music
* To my brother
* Beauty
* Three crowns
* Murdock Gillis
* In the springtime
* Overjoyed
* The burning orphan asylum
* Their part
* Home memories
* Musings
* The silent meeting
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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# Poems (Southey)/Volume 2/The Surgeon's Warning

The
Surgeon's Warning.
​The subject of this parody was given me by a friend, to whom also I am indebted for some of the stanzas.
Respecting the patent coffins herein mentioned, after the manner of Catholic Poets, who confess the actions they attribute to their Saints and Deity to be but fiction, I hereby declare that it is by no means my design to depreciate that useful invention; and all persons to whom this Ballad shall come, are requested to take notice, that nothing here asserted concerning the aforesaid Coffins is true, except that the maker and patentee lives by St. Martin's Lane.
THE SURGEON'S WARNING.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Composed while the Author was engaged in writing a Tract occasioned by the Convention of Cintra

V.
COMPOSED WHILE THE AUTHOR WAS ENGAGED IN WRITING A TRACT, OCCASIONED BY THE CONVENTION OF CINTRA,
1808.
Not 'mid the World's vain objects that enslave The free-born Soul,—that world whose vaunted skill In selfish interest perverts the will, Whose factions lead astray the wise and brave; Not there! but in dark wood and rocky cave, And hollow vale which foaming torrents fill With omnipresent murmur as they rave Down their steep beds that never shall be still: Here, mighty Nature!—in this school sublime I weigh the hopes and fears of suffering Spain: For her consult the auguries of time, And through the human heart explore my way, And look and listen,—gathering where I may Triumph, and thoughts no bondage can restrain.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Brook whose

XXVIII.
Brook, whose society the Poet seeks Intent his wasted spirits to renew; And whom the curious Painter doth pursue Through rocky passes, among flowery creeks, And tracks thee dancing down thy water-breaks; If I some type of thee did wish to view, Thee,—and not thee thyself, I would not do Like Grecian Artists, give thee human cheeks, Channels for tears; no Naiad should'st thou be, Have neither limbs, feet, feathers, joints, nor hairs; It seems the Eternal Soul is clothed in thee With purer robes than those of flesh and blood, And hath bestowed on thee a better good; Unwearied joy, and life without its cares.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Call not the royal Swede

XVIII.
Call not the royal Swede unfortunate Who never did to Fortune bend the knee; Who slighted fear,—rejected steadfastly Temptation; and whose kingly name and state Have "perished by his choice, and not his fate!" Hence lives He, to his inner self endeared; And hence, wherever virtue is revered, He sits a more exalted Potentate, Throned in the hearts of men. Should Heaven ordain That this great Servant of a righteous cause Must still have sad or vexing thoughts to endure, Yet may a sympathizing spirit pause, Admonished by these truths, and quench all pain In thankful joy and gratulation pure.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Composed on the Eve of the Marriage of a Friend

XXXIV.
COMPOSED ON THE EVE OF THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND, IN THE VALE OF GRASMERE.
What need of clamorous bells, or ribbands gay, These humble Nuptials to proclaim or grace? Angels of Love, look down upon the place, Shed on the chosen Vale a sun-bright day! Even for such omen would the Bride display No mirthful gladness:—serious is her face, Modest her mien; and she, whose thoughts keep pace With gentleness, in that becoming way Will thank you. Faultless does the Maid appear, No disproportion in her soul, no strife: But, when the closer view of wedded life Hath shewn that nothing human can be clear From frailty, for that insight may the Wife To her indulgent Lord become more dear.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Spring in New Hampshire

Layout 2
Spring in New Hampshire
By CLAUDE McKAY.
Too green the springing April grass, Too blue the silver-speckled sky, For me to linger here, alas, While happy winds go laughing by, Wasting the golden hours indoors, Washing windows and scrubbing floors.
Too wonderful the April night, Too faintly sweet the first May flowers, The stars too gloriously bright, For me to spend the evening hours, When fields are fresh and streams are leaping, Wearied, exhausted, dully sleeping.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Swear You'll Never Forget

Layout 2
Swear You'll Never Forget
By SIEGFRIED SASSOON
HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN YET? For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days, Like traffic checked awhile at the crossing of the ways: And the haunted gap in your minds has filled with thoughts that flow Like clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you are a man reprieved to go, Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare. BUT THE PAST IS JUST THE SAME—AND WAR'S A BLOODY GAME . . . HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN YET? LOOK DOWN, AND SWEAR BY THE SLAIN OF THE WAR THAT YOU'LL NEVER FORGET.
Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz— The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapet? Do you remember the rats, and the stench Of corpses rotting in front of the front line trench,— And dawn coming dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain? DO YOU EVER STOP AND ASK, "IS IT GOING TO HAPPEN AGAIN?". ​Do you remember that hour of din before the attack,— And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of the men? Do you remember the stretcher cases lurching back With dying eyes and lolling heads,—those ashen grey Mask of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay? HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN YET? LOOK UP AND SWEAR BY THE STARS IN THE SKY THAT YOU'LL NEVER FORGET.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/The Red Guard

Layout 2
The Red Guard
By RALPH CHAPLIN.
Sons of the dawn! No more shall you enslave Nor lull them with your honeyed lies to sleep, Nor lead them on like herds of human sheep, To hopeless slaughter for the loot you crave. For now upon you, wave on mighty wave, The iron-stern battalions rise and leap To extirpate your breed and bury deep And sow with salt the unlamented grave!
Accursed Monster—nightmare of the years— Pause but a moment ere you pass away! Pause and behold the earth made clean and pure— Our earth, that you have drenched with blood and tears— Then greet the crimson usurer of Day— The mighty Proletarian Dictature!
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Out From Siberia

Layout 2
Out From Siberia
By ALICE CORBIN
I hear the tramp of thousands of men Coming from prisons and haunts of gloom. Out from Siberia’s living tomb— Russia greeting her own again.
Oh, this is the happiest army of men Who fought for freedom with passionate zeal, A fight more brave than of steel on steel— Russia welcomes her own again.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Pittsburgh

Layout 2
Pittsburgh
By James Oppenheim.
Over his face his gray hair drifting, hides his Labor-glory in smoke, Strange through his breath the soot is sifting, his feet are buried in coal and coke. By night hands twisted and lured in fires, by day hands blackened with grime and oil, He toils at the foundries and never tires, and ever and ever his lot is toil. He speeds his soul till his body wrestles with terrible tonnage and terrible time, Out through the yards and over the trestles the flat-cars clank and the engines chime, His mills through windows seem eaten with fire, high cranes travel, his ingots roll, And billet and wheel and whistle and wire shriek with the speeding up of his soul. Lanterns with reds and greens a-glisten wave the way and the head-light glares, The back-bent laborers glance and listen and out through the night the tail-light flares— Deep in the mills like a tipping cradle the huge converter turns on its wheel And sizzling spills in the ten-ton ladle a golden water of molten steel. Yet screwed with toil his low face searches shadow-edged fires and whilted pits, ​Gripping his levers his body lurches, grappling his irons he prods and hits, And deaf with the roll and clangor and rattle with its sharp escaping staccato of steam, And blind with flame and worn with battle, into his tonnage he turns his dream. The world he had built rises around us, our wonder cities and weaving rails, Over his wires a marvel has found us, a glory rides in our wheeled mails, For the Earth grows small with strong Steel woven, and they come together who plotted apart— But he who has wrought this thing in his oven knows only toil and the tired heart.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Preface

Layout 2
Preface
This anthology of poems for workers is, I think, the only one of its kind in the English language. Symposiums have been made of poems "about workers" and there have been a number of collections of poetry and prose gathered together under the general all-embracing head of "literature and art of the humanist thinkers of the world"—notably the well-known volume entitled "The Cry for Social Justice," edited by Upton Sinclair, which includes the chance writings on social justice of such anti-proletarian figures as Bismarck, John Stuart Mill, Thomas Carlyle, John D. Rockefeller, Rudyard Kipling . . . and even Hall Caine. The poems in the present booklet center upon the life, struggles and revolutionary movement of the working class. They are in fact an indivisible part of the working class struggle. Originally written for and directed to the working class, they are here collected for working class readers.
For the most part, the anthology consists of poems which I have seen here and there in labor periodicals and which I have cut out and saved over a period of years. The selection is therefore ​quite arbitrary. It is, of course, by no means exhaustive. Readers will notice many omissions, some of which—like "The International"—were left out to make room for less familiar poems and others—like Arturo Giovanitti's "The Walker"—because they were too long to be included. It is true that Giovanitti's "When the Cock Crows" is even longer than "The Walker" but I do not think anyone will be sorry for its inclusion.
As already stated, I have thought it best to limit the selection to poems which belong directly to the class struggle. The majority of the authors have been themselves active in the revolutionary proletarian movement in some capacity or other, and many of them are active in the struggle at the present time. The following pages are thus commended to working class readers as a product of their own movement. Workers will see in these poems an earnest of the invincible sweep, the elemental necessity, the suffering and heroism, the sacrifice and courage, the bitterness and devotion, the steady persistence, the already dawning triumph, of the class struggle of the proletarians of all nations for the overthrow of wage-slavery and the establishment of a new society.
—M. G.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Slaves

Layout 2
Slaves
By JOSEPH FREEMAN.
Again the grinding of the iron gods, The old familiar fury of the wheels; Again the accustomed clamor of the rods, The giddy belting, and the room that reels;
The dim light dancing, and the shadows shaking, The little sudden pains, the mute despairs, The patient and the weary hands; till, waking, At dusk, we tumble down the crazy stairs.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/Statistics

Layout 2
Statistics
By Jim Waters.
I'm tired of listening to sun-shine talk, This pie-in-the-sky stuff, This travesty on patient toil; Let the Jesus-screamers, The open-shop artists, And their ilk. . . . Hook their fat necks over a flying emery wheel For. . . . eight. . . . long. . . . hours; And to the beat and whir of machinery, "I work to get money toChant this: "I work to get money to buy food to get strong, So I can work to get money to buy food and get strong.". . . Then, maybe, they will understand Why the church pews are empty, And men die for unionism.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/The Five-Point Star

Layout 2
The Five-Point Star
By J. S. WALLACE
Dank Is the fog that dogs our steps, The mist that twists in siren shapes, Edging us on to ledges him Where Death, expectant, grimly gapes.
Baleful the light, though beautiful, That leads to those seductive arms Whose clasp is death and burial Beneat the bullfrog's late alarms.
Weary of too much travelling, Wary of leaders who mislead, We know not how to stay nor start, Nor to go back, nor to proceed.
Sudden upon the blood stained sky, Bright like a bayonet afar, Cleaving the dark, the doubt, the death, Rises the pilot Five Point Star.
Russia, salute! Not to your lands, But to your toiling working class Who broke the spears of all the Czars Upon their breasts, that we might pass
From haunted days, and hunted ways. (Poor harried slaves, who breath by stealth!) Through Revolution's iron gates To the Industrial Commonwealth!
| Daily Worker Publishing Co. | 1113 W. Washington Blvd., Chicago |
THE
DAILY WORKER PUBLISHING CO.
"The Source of All Communist Literature"
CHICAGO, ILLINOIS
U. S. A.
# Poems for Workers (Gomez 1925)/The Legacy

Layout 2
The Legacy.
By James Connolly.
Connolly is known to all Irishmen as the leader of the Irish Citizen Army, the soul of the Easter Rebellion of 1916, in which Connolly lost his life. He was not only a fighter for Irish independence but also for the emancipation of the working class from wage slavery. He was a revolutionary Marxist, editor of the famous journal, "The Workers' Republic." This poem is inscribed to his son.
"Thy father is a poor man," mark well what that may mean, On the tablets of thy memory that truth write bright and clean, The father's lot it was to toil from earliest boyhood on, And know his latent energies for a master's profit drawn.
Or else, ill-starred, to wander round and huckster-like to vend His precious store of brain and brawn to all whom fate may send Across his path with gold enough to purchase labor's power, To turn it into gold again, and fructify the hour With sweat and blood of toiling slaves like unto us my son; ​Aye, through our veins since earliest days, 'tis poor man's blood has run. . .
Treasure ye in your inmost heart this legacy of hate For those who on the poor man's back have climbed to high estate, The lords of land and capital, the slave lords of our age, Who of this smiling earth of ours have made for us a cage. . .
And howsoe'er you earn your wage, and wheresoe'er you go, Be it beneath the tropic heat or 'mid the northern snow, Or closely pent in factory walls, or burrowing in the mine, Or scorching in the furnace hell of steamers 'cross the brine. . .
The men and women of your class, tell them their wrongs and yours— Plant in their hearts that hatred deep that suffers and endures, And treasuring up each deed of wrong, each scornful word and look, Inscribe it in the memory, as others in a book. And wait and watch through galling years the ripening of time, Yet deem to strike before that hour were worse than folly—crime!
# Poems (Eliot, 1926)

* related portals: Poetry, English literature.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
POEMS
1909–1925
POEMS
1909—1925
By T. S. ELIOT
LONDON
Faber and Gwyer
MCMXXVI
TO
HENRY WARE ELIOT
1843–1919
​CONTENTS
PRUFROCK (1917):
POEMS (1920):
THE WASTE LAND (1922):
THE HOLLOW MEN (1925):
The Hollow Men, 95
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 1966, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 57 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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# Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/Thoughts of Thee

THOUGHTS OF THEE.
As the wild-bird, when the spring-flower Cometh back once more, Seeketh the same greenwood bower It had loved before; So my memory never loseth Its sad dream of thee; But my heart around it closeth, Fondly, mournfully.
It doth bide with me forever, Waking or asleep— Murmuring like some mournful river, Low, and wild, and deep. Every thing that's good and lovely, All fair things I see, Do like hidden music move me, With sad dreams of thee.
Summer clouds are beautiful, And sunny spots in groves; And the gushing of a waterfall Hath a melting voice like love's; And the young moon hath a witchery No tongue hath ever told, As she looketh down in purity, So bright, and fair, and cold.
But my heart forgets its dreaminess, Its once so frequent thrill; And gazeth upon loveliness With pulses strangely still. I can not tear myself away, I can not break the spell; But it doth strengthen day by day, Repulse it as I will.
​For there was not the smallest thing That was admired by thee, To which my spirit does not cling Watchfully, tenderly. I sit beneath the evening sky, And look upon the moon, And the fitful breeze comes flutt'ring by, With a low and hollow tune;
And I see our beacon star come up, And rise above the trees, And the dew is in the Iris' cup, But what to me are these? I know thou wilt not come again, As was thy wont of old; And I press my burning brow in pain, And wish the night were told:
For the moonlight teems with memory, And the stars burn on my sight; And every thing doth talk of thee, In the stillness of the night. In dreams I sometimes see thy face, But nothing kind is there; I meet thy mute, forgetful gaze, With still but deep despair.
The sunliglit is too bright for me, And pleasant days seem long; Laughter is but a mockery, And the voice of happy song. I do not weep, but crush my heart, That I may seem to be Unwounded by the poison dart That was prepared for me.
My spirit walks the earth apart, Weary and alone, ​And not a chord in all my heart, But hath a broken tone. The chords that once so wildly rung To mirth and melody, Are silent now, or only strung To mournful thoughts of thee