OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/The Barrier

THE BARRIER
The Midnight wooed the Morning-Star,  And prayed her: "Love come nearer; Your swinging coldly there afar  To me but makes you dearer!"
The Morning-Star was pale with dole  As said she, low replying: "Oh, lover mine, soul of my soul,  For you I too am sighing.
"But One ordained when we were born,  In spite of Love's insistence, That Night might only view the Morn  Adoring at a distance."
But as she spoke the jealous Sun  Across the heavens panted. "Oh, whining fools," he cried, "have done;  Your wishes shall be granted!"
He hurled his flaming lances far;  The twain stood unaffrighted— And Midnight and the Morning-Star  Lay down in death united!
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/The Change

THE CHANGE Love used to carry a bow, you know,  But now he carries a taper; It is either a length of wax aglow,  Or a twist of lighted paper.
I pondered a little about the scamp,  And then I decided to follow His wandering journey to field and camp,  Up hill, down dale or hollow.
I dogged the rollicking, gay, young blade  In every species of weather; Till, leading me straight to the home of a maid  He left us there together.
And then I saw it, oh, sweet surprise,  The taper it set a-burning The love-light brimming my lady's eyes,  And my heart with the fire of yearning.
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
# The Complete Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar/The Change Has Come

THE CHANGE HAS COME
The change has come, and Helen sleeps— Not sleeps; but wakes to greater deeps  Of wisdom, glory, truth, and light,  Than ever blessed her seeking sight,  In this low, long, lethargic night,  Worn out with strife  Which men call life.
The change has come, and who would say "I would it were not come to-day"?  What were the respite till to-morrow?  Postponement of a certain sorrow,  From which each passing day would borrow!  Let grief be dumb,  The change has come
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
# The Corsair (Byron, 1814)/Farewell

Farewell.
Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal availed on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky, 'Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh: Oh! more than tears of blood can tell, When wrung from guilt's expiring eye, Are in that word—Farewell!—Farewell!
These lips are mute, these eyes are dry; But in my breast, and in my brain, Awake the pangs that pass not by, The thought that ne'er shall sleep again. My soul nor deigns nor dares complain, Though grief and passion there rebel; I only know we loved in vain— I only feel—Farewell!—Farewell!
THE END.
T. DAVISON, Lombard-street, Whitefriars, London.
# The Corsair (Byron, 1814)/From the Turkish

From the Turkish.
1.
The chain I gave was fair to view,  The lute I added sweet in sound, The heart that offered both was true,  And ill deserv'd the fate it found.
2.
These gifts were charm'd by secret spell  Thy truth in absence to divine; And they have done their duty well,  Alas! they could not teach thee thine.
3.
That chain was firm in every link.  But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet—till thou could'st think  In other hands ts notes were such.
4.
Let him, who from thy neck unbound  The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound,  Restring the chords, renew the clasp.
5.
When thou wert chang'd, they alter'd too;  The chain is broke, the music mute: 'Tis past—to them and thee adieu—  False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.
# The Corsair (Byron, 1814)/Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog

Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog.
Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe, And storied urns record who rests below; When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been: But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnotic'd all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven. Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour, Debas'd by slavery, or corrupt by power, Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, Degraded mass of animated dust! ​Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on—it honours none you wish to mourn: To mark a friend's remains these stones arise, I never knew but one, and here he lies.
Newstead Abbey, Oct. 30, 1808.
# The Corsair (Byron, 1814)/Sonnet (1)

SONNET.
To Genevra.
Thine eyes blue tenderness, thy long fair hair, And the wan lustre of thy features—caught From contemplation—where serenely wrought, Seems Sorrow's softness charm'd from its despair— Have thrown such speaking sadness in thine air, That—but I know thy blessed bosom fraught With mines of unalloy'd and stainless thought— I should have deem'd thee doom'd to earthly care. With such an aspect by his colours blent, When from his beauty-breathing pencil born, (Except that thou hast nothing to repent) The Magdalen of Guido saw the morn— Such seem'st thou—but how much more excellent! With nought Remorse can claim—nor Virtue scorn.
# The Corsair (Byron, 1814)/To a Lady Weeping

POEMS.
To a Lady weeping.
Weep, daughter of a royal line, A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ah, happy! if each tear of thine Could wash a father's fault away!
Weep—for thy tears are Virtue's tears— Auspicious to these suffering isles; And be each drop in future years Repaid thee by thy people's smiles!
March, 1812.
# The Corsair (Byron, 1814)/Sonnet (2)

SONNET.
To Genevra.
Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe, And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush, My heart would wish away that ruder glow:— And dazzle not thy deep-blue eyes—but oh! While gazing on them sterner eyes will gush, And into mine my mother's weakness rush, Soft as the last drops round heaven's airy bow; For, through thy long dark lashes low depending, The soul of melancholy Gentleness Gleams like a seraph from the sky descending, Above all pain, yet pitying all distress; At once such majesty with sweetness blending, I worship more, but cannot love thee less.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Story of Ida

“THE STORY OF IDA”
Francesca Alexander, whose pen and pencil have so reverently transcribed the simple faith and life of the Italian peasantry, wrote the narrative published with John Ruskin’s introduction under the title, The Story of Ida.
Weary of jangling noises never stilled, The skeptic’s sneer, the bigot’s hate, the din Of clashing texts, the webs of creed men spin Round simple truth, the children grown who build With gilded cards their new Jerusalem, Busy, with sacerdotal tailorings And tinsel gauds, bedizening holy things, I turn, with glad and grateful heart, from them To the sweet story of the Florentine Immortal in her blameless maidenhood, Beautiful as God’s angels and as good; Feeling that life, even now, may be divine With love no wrong can ever change to hate, No sin make less that all-compassionate!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Rock-Tomb of Bradore

THE ROCK-TOMB OF BRADORE
H. Y. Hind, in Explorations in the Interior of the Labrador Peninsula (ii. 166), mentions the finding of a rock tomb near the little fishing port of Bradore, with the inscription upon it which is given in the poem.
A drear and desolate shore! Where no tree unfolds its leaves, And never the spring wind weaves Green grass for the hunter’s tread; A land forsaken and dead, Where the ghostly icebergs go And come with the ebb and flow Of the waters of Bradore!
A wanderer, from a land By summer breezes fanned, Looked round him, awed, subdued, By the dreadful solitude, Hearing alone the cry Of sea-birds clanging by, The crash and grind of the floe, Wail of wind and wash of tide. “O wretched land!” he cried, “Land of all lands the worst, God forsaken and curst! Thy gates of rock should show The words the Tuscan seer Read in the Realm of Woe: Hope entereth not here!”
Lo! at his feet there stood A block of smooth larch wood, Waif of some wandering wave, Beside a rock-closed cave By Nature fashioned for a grave; Safe from the ravening bear And fierce fowl of the air, Wherein to rest was laid A twenty summers’ maid, Whose blood had equal share Of the lands of vine and snow, Half French, half Eskimo. In letters uneffaced, Upon the block were traced The grief and hope of man, And thus the legend ran: “We loved her! Words cannot tell how well! We loved her! God loved her! And called her home to peace and rest. We love her!”
The stranger paused and read. “O winter land!” he said, “Thy right to be I own; God leaves thee not alone. And if thy fierce winds blow Over drear wastes of rock and snow, And at thy iron gates The ghostly iceberg waits, Thy homes and hearts are dear. Thy sorrow o’er thy sacred dust Is sanctified by hope and trust; God’s love and man’s are here. And love where’er it goes Makes its own atmosphere; Its flowers of Paradise Take root in the eternal ice, And bloom through Polar snows!”
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Star of Bethlehem

RELIGIOUS POEMS
THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM
Where Time the measure of his hours By changeful bud and blossom keeps, And, like a young bride crowned with flowers, Fair Shiraz in her garden sleeps;
Where, to her poet’s turban stone, The Spring her gift of flowers imparts, Less sweet than those his thoughts have sown In the warm soil of Persian hearts:
There sat the stranger, where the shade Of scatteted date-trees thinly lay, While in the hot clear heaven delayed The long and still and weary day.
Strange trees and fruits above him hung, Strange odors filled the sultry air, Strange birds upon the branches swung, Strange insect voices murmured there.
And strange bright blossoms shone around, Turned sunward from the shadowy bowers, As if the Gheber’s soul had found A fitting home in Iran’s flowers.
Whate’er he saw, whate’er he heard, Awakened feelings new and sad,— No Christian garb, nor Christian word, Nor church with Sabbath-bell chimes glad,
But Moslem graves, with turban stones, And mosque-spires gleaming white, in view, And graybeard Mollahs in low tones Chanting their Koran service through.
The flowers which smiled on either hand, Like tempting fiends, were such as they Which once, o’er all that Eastern land, As gifts on demon altars lay.
As if the burning eye of Baal The servant of his Conqueror knew, From skies which knew no cloudy veil, The Sun’s hot glances smote him through.
“Ah me!” the lonely stranger said, “The hope which led my footsteps on, And light from heaven around them shed, O’er weary wave and waste, is gone!
“Where are the harvest fields all white, For Truth to thrust her sickle in? Where flock the souls, like doves in flight, From the dark hiding-place of sin?
“A silent horror broods o’er all,— The burden of a hateful spell,— The very flowers around recall The hoary magi’s rites of hell!
“And what am I, o’er such a land The banner of the Cross to bear? Dear Lord, uphold me with Thy hand, Thy strength with human weakness share!”
He ceased; for at his very feet In mild rebuke a floweret smiled; How thrilled his sinking heart to greet The Star-flower of the Virgin’s child!
Sown by some wandering Frank, it drew Its life from alien air and earth, And told to Paynim sun and dew The story of the Saviour’s birth.
From scorching beams, in kindly mood, The Persian plants its beauty screened, And on its pagan sisterhood, In love, the Christian floweret leaned.
With tears of joy the wanderer felt The darkness of his long despair Before that hallowed symbol melt, Which God’s dear love had nurtured there.
From Nature’s face, that simple flower The lilies of sin and sadness swept; And Magian pile and Paynim bower In peace like that of Eden slept.
Each Moslem tomb, and cypress old, Looked holy through the sunset air; And, angel-like, the Muezzin told From tower and mosque the hour of prayer.
With cheerful steps, the morrow’s dawn From Shiraz saw the stranger part; The Star-flower of the Virgin-Born Still blooming in his hopeful heart!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Sisters: a Picture by Barry

THE SISTERS
A PICTURE BY BARRY
The shade for me, but over thee The lingering sunshine still; As, smiling, to the silent stream Comes down the singing rill.
So come to me, my little one,— My years with thee I share, And mingle with a sister’s love A mother’s tender care.
But keep the smile upon thy lip, The trust upon thy brow; Since for the dear one God hath called We have an angel now.
Our mother from the fields of heaven Shall still her ear incline; Nor need we fear her human love Is less for love divine.
The songs are sweet they sing beneath The trees of life so fair, But sweetest of the songs of heaven Shall be her children’s prayer.
Then, darling, rest upon my breast, And teach my heart to lean With thy sweet trust upon the arm Which folds us both unseen!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Robin

THE ROBIN
My old Welsh neighbor over the way Crept slowly out in the sun of spring, Pushed from her ears the locks of gray, And listened to hear the robins sing.
Her grandson, playing at marbles, stopped, And, cruel in sport as boys will be, Tossed a stone at the bird, who hopped From bough to bough in the apple-tree.
“Nay!” said the grandmother; “have you not heard, My poor, bad boy! of the fiery pit, And how, drop by drop, this merciful bird Carries the water that quenches it?
“He brings cool dew in his little bill, And lets it fall on the souls of sin: You can see the mark on his red breast still Of fires that scorch as he drops it in.
“My poor Bron rhuddyn! my breast-burned bird, Singing so sweetly from limb to limb, Very dear to the heart of Our Lord Is he who pities the lost like Him!”
“Amen!” I said to the beautiful myth; “Sing, bird of God, in my heart as well: Each good thought is a drop wherewith To cool and lessen the fires of hell.
“Prayers of love like rain-drops fall, Tears of pity are cooling dew, And dear to the heart of Our Lord are all Who suffer like Him in the good they do!”
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Sisters

THE SISTERS
Annie and Rhoda, sisters twain, Woke in the night to the sound of rain,
The rush of wind, the ramp and roar Of great waves climbing a rocky shore.
Annie rose up in her bed-gown white, And looked out into the storm and night.
“Hush, and hearken!” she cried in fear, “Hearest thou nothing, sister dear?”
“I hear the sea, and the plash of rain, And roar of the northeast hurricane.
“Get thee back to the bed so warm, No good comes of watching a storm.
“What is it to thee, I fain would know, That waves are roaring and wild winds blow?
“No lover of thine ’s afloat to miss The harbor-lights on a night like this.”
“But I heard a voice cry out my name, Up from the sea on the wind it came!
“Twice and thrice have I heard it call, And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!”
On her pillow the sister tossed her head. “Hall of the Heron is safe,” she said.
“In the tautest schooner that ever swam He rides at anchor in Annisquam.
“And, if in peril from swamping sea Or lee shore rocks, would he call on thee?”
But the girl heard only the wind and tide, And wringing her small white hands she cried:
“O sister Rhoda, there ’s something wrong; I hear it again, so loud and long.
“ ‘Annie! Annie!’ I hear it call, And the voice is the voice of Estwick Hall!”
Up sprang the elder, with eyes aflame, “Thou liest! He never would call thy name!
“If he did, I would pray the wind and sea To keep him forever from thee and me!”
Then out of the sea blew a dreadful blast; Like the cry of a dying man it passed.
The young girl hushed on her lips a groan, But through her tears a strange light shone,—
The solemn joy of her heart’s release To own and cherish its love in peace.
“Dearest!” she whispered, under breath, “Life was a lie, but true is death.
“The love I hid from myself away Shall crown me now in the light of day.
“My ears shall never to wooer list, Never by lover my lips be kissed.
“Sacred to thee am I henceforth, Thou in heaven and I on earth!”
She came and stood by her sister’s bed: “Hall of the Heron is dead!” she said.
“The wind and the waves their work have done, We shall see him no more beneath the sun.
“Little will reck that heart of thine; It loved him not with a love like mine.
“I, for his sake, were he but here, Could hem and ’broider thy bridal gear,
“Though hands should tremble and eyes be wet, And stitch for stitch in my heart be set.
“But now my soul with his soul I wed; Thine the living, and mine the dead!”
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Epistles - Second Series/XXVI Sir

XXVI[6]*
(Translated from Bengali)
Victory to God!
GHAZIPUR,
8th March, 1890.
DEAR SIR,
Your note duly reached met and so I too shall be off to Prayag. Please write to inform where you mean to put up while there.
Yours etc.,
VIVEKANANDA.
PS. In case Abhedananda reaches your place in a day or two, I shall be much obliged if you will start him on his way to Calcutta.
VIVEKANANDA.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Epistles - Second Series/XXXII Sir

XXXII[6]*
(Translated from Bengali)
Victory to Ramakrishna!
BARANAGORE,
10th May, 1890.
DEAR SIR,
I could not write to you because of various distractions and a relapse of fever. Glad to learn from Abhedananda's letter that you are doing well. Gangadhar (Akhandananda) has probably arrived at Varanasi by this time. King Death happens here to be casting into his jaws these days many of our friends and own people, hence I am very much taken up. Perhaps no letter for me has arrived there from Nepal. I know not how and when Vishvanâtha (the Lord of Kashi) would choose to vouchsafe some rest to me. Directly the hot weather relaxes a little, I am off from this place, but I am still at a loss where to go. Do please pray for me to Vishvanatha that He may grant me strength. You are a devotee, and I beseech you with the Lord's words coming to my mind, "Those who are the devoted ones to My devotees, are indeed considered the best of My devotees."
Yours etc.,
VIVEKANANDA.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Epistles - Second Series/XXXIX Mother

XXXIX
(Translated from Bengali)
BOMBAY,
24th May, 1893.
DEAR MOTHER, (Shrimati Indumati Mitra)
Very glad to receive your letter and that of dear Haripada. Please do not be sorry that I could not write to you very often. I am always praying to the Lord for your welfare. I cannot go to Belgaum now as arrangements are all ready for my starting for America on the 31st next. The Lord willing, I shall see you on returning from my travels in America and Europe. Always resign yourselves to the Lord Shri Krishna. Always remember that we are but puppets in the Lord's hands. Remain pure always. Please be careful not to become impure even in thought, as also in speech and action; always try to do good to others as far as in you lies. And remember that the paramount duty of a woman is to serve her husband by thought, word, and deed. Please read the Gita every day to the best of your opportunity. Why have you signed yourself as. . . Dâsi (maidservant)? The Vaishya and the Shudra should sign as Dâsa and Dâsi, but the Brahmin and Kshatriya should write Deva and Devi (goddess). Moreover, these distinctions of caste and the like have been the invention of our modern sapient Brahmins. Who is a servant, and to whom? Everyone is a servant of the Lord Hari. Hence a woman should use her patronymic, that is, the surname of her husband. This is the ancient Vedic custom, as for example, such and such Mitra, or the like. It is needless to write much, dear mother; always know that I am constantly praying for your well-being. From America I shall now and then write you letters with descriptions of the wonderful things there. I am now at Bombay, and shall stay here up to the 31st. The private Secretary to the Maharaja of Khetri has come here to see me off.
With blessings,
Yours sincerely,
VIVEKANANDA.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Epistles - Second Series/XXXI Sir

XXXI[6]*
(Translated from Bengali)
GHAZIPUR,
2nd April, 1890.
DEAR SIR,
Where shall I get that renunciation you speak of in your advice to me? It is for the sake of that very thing that I am out a tramp through the earth. If ever I get this true renunciation, I shall let you know; and if you get anything of the kind, please remember me as a partner thereof.
Yours,
VIVEKANANDA.
# The Complete Works of Swami Vivekananda/Volume 6/Epistles - Second Series/XXVII Akhandananda

XXVII
(Translated from Bengali)
Salutation to Bhagavan Ramakrishna!
GHAZIPUR,
March, 1890.
BELOVED AKHANDANANDA,
Very glad to receive your letter yesterday. I am at present staying with the wonderful Yogi and devotee of this place, called Pavhariji. He never comes out of his room and holds conversations with people from behind the door. Inside the room there is a pit in which he lives. It is rumoured that he remains in a state of Samadhi for months together. His fortitude is most wonderful. Our Bengal is the land of Bhakti and of Jnana, where Yoga is scarcely so much as talked of even. What little there is, is but the queer breathing exercises of the Hatha-Yoga — which is nothing but a kind of gymnastics. Therefore I am staying with this wonderful Raja-Yogi — and he has given me some hopes, too. There is a beautiful bungalow in a small garden belonging to a gentleman here; I mean to stay there. The garden is quite close to Babaji's cottage. A brother of the Babaji stays there to look after the comforts of the Sadhus, and I shall have my Bhikshâ at his place. Hence, with a view to seeing to the end of this fun, I give up for the present my plan of going to the hills. For the last two months I have had an attack of lumbago in the waist, which also makes it impossible to climb the hills now. Therefore let me wait and see what Babaji will give me.
My motto is to learn whatever good things I may come across anywhere. This leads many friends to think that it will take away from my devotion to the Guru. These ideas I count as those of lunatics and bigots. For all Gurus are one and are fragments and radiations of God, the Universal Guru.
If you come to Ghazipur, you have but to inquire at Satish Babu's or Gagan Babu's at Gorabazar, and you know my whereabouts. Or, Pavhari Baba is so well-known a person here that everyone will inform you about his Ashrama at the very mention of his name, and you have only to go there and inquire about the Paramahamsa, and they will tell you of me. Near Moghul Sarai there is a station named Dildarnagar, where you have to change to a short branch railway and get down at Tarighat, opposite Ghazipur; then you have to cross the Ganga to reach Ghazipur.
For the present, I stay at Ghazipur for some days, and wait and see what the Babaji does. If you come, we shall stay together at the said bungalow for some time, and then start for the hills, or for any other place we may decide upon. Don't, please, write to anyone at Baranagore that I am staying at Ghazipur.
With blessings and best wishes,
Ever yours,
VIVEKANANDA.