OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Moses

Moses.
There was a king of Egypt, and he made
A cruel law, that every infant son
Born to the Hebrew race, throughout his realm,
Should be destroyed. Think! what a cruel law,
That those sweet, sinless infants should be slain.
—But one fond mother hid her babe away,
So that they might not find him, and she went
Silent, and gave him food; and when he cried
She softly hush'd him, lest his voice should lead
The murderers to their prey. So he became
Exceeding fair, and health upon his cheek
Gleam'd like an opening rose.
 Three months past by,
And his glad eye grew brighter, when he heard
His mother's footstep, though he did not know
Why she would press her finger on her lip
To check his joyous mirth. With bitter pang
She gaz'd upon the beauty of his smile,
And shuddering heard his laughter, for she felt
She could no longer hide him.
So one, morn,
She wrapt him safely in a cradle-ark,
And with a hurried foot-step laid him down
Among the rushes by the river's brink.
—Strangely the wild eye of the wondering babe,
Gaz'd on her from the water,—and his arms
Stretch'd from their reedy prison, sought in vain
To twine about her neck. She turn'd away,
Breathing that prayer, which none but mothers breathe
For their endanger'd babes.
 It was the Nile,
On which she laid her son, in his slight ark
Of woven rushes. She remember'd well,
The gaunt and wily crocodile, that loves
To haunt those slimy waters. But she knew
That He who made the crocodile could stay
His ravenous jaws. So, in his mighty arm
She put her trust. Close by the river's brink,
Her little mournful daughter staid to see
What would befal her brother, and her voice
Did sweetly struggle with her grief, to sing
The hymn that sooth'd the child.
But then there came
Proud Egypt's princess, with her flowing robes,
Walking that way. And when she saw the ark
Among the flags, she bade her maidens haste,
And bring it to her.
 Lo! there lay a babe,
A weeping babe:—and when she saw its brow,
Polish'd and beautiful, all wet with tears,
And deadly pale, pity and love sprang up
In her kind bosom, and she took the boy
To her own palace-home. Yet still he wept,
Like an affrighted stranger.
 Then she bade
To call a nurse; and lo! the mother came!
She, who had sown in tears, did reap in joy.
—And when she drew her nursling to her breast,
And fondly lull'd him to a gentle sleep,
Know ye how warm the thrill of praise went up
Unto the God of Israel?
 —So, this babe
Of the poor Hebrew, 'neath the royal dome
Of Egypt's monarch grew,—in all the lore
Of that wise realm instructed. He became
A prophet, mighty both in word and deed.
And when you read, my children, how he broke
The yoke of bondage from his people's neck,
And smote with awful rod the parting sea,
And brought pure water from the rock, and stood
On Sinai, with Jehovah face to face,
You will bethink you of this simple tale,—
The Ark of rushes, and the Mother's prayer.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/New Year's Address

New Year's Address.
My children, 'tis the New Year's morn,
And many a wish for you is born,
And many a prayer, of spirit true,
Breaks from paternal lips for you.
—No more the vales with daisies glow, The violet sleeps beneath the snow,
The rose her radiant robes doth fold
And hide her buds from winter's cold.
But Spring, with gentle smile, shall call
Up from their beds, those slumberers all;
Fresh verdure o'er your path shall swell,
The brook its tuneful story tell,
And graceful flowers with varied bloom
Again your garden's bound perfume.—
—Ye are our buds; and in your breast
The promise of our hope doth rest.
When knowledge like the breath of Spring
Shall wake your minds to blossoming,
May their unfolding germs disclose
More than the fragrance of the rose,
More than the brightness of the stream,
That through green shades, with sparkling gleam
In purity and peace doth glide
On to the ocean's mighty tide.
—The country too, which gave you birth, That freest, happiest clime of earth, To all, to each, with fervor cries,
"Child! for my sake,—be good, be wise.
Seek knowledge, and with studious pain,
Resolve her priceless gold to gain.
Shun the strong cup, whose poisonous tide
To ruin's dark abyss doth guide,
And with the sons of virtue stand,
The bulwark of your native land.
—Me, would you serve? This day begin
The fear of God, the dread of sin;
Love, for instruction's watchful care,
The patient task, the nightly prayer;
So shall you glitter as a gem,
Bound in my brightest diadem."
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Respect to Age

Respect to Age.
When leaning on the staff,
 Amid the crowded street,
With feeble step and wrinkled face,
 Some aged form I meet.
However poor and weak,
 Or ignorant and low,
I must respect those hoary hairs,
 For God has told me so.
I love to see the hair
 All venerably grey;
A crown of glory 't is to those
 Who walk in Wisdom's way.
I love the reverend head,
 With years and honors white,
'T is like the ripen'd fruit of heav'n,
 And angels bless the sight.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/The Almighty

The Almighty.
Who bade thy parents love thy infant form,
And shield thy weakness from the wintry storm?
Who gave the ear to hear, the mind to know,
The eye to sparkle, and the blood to flow? Who grants the day of health, the night of rest,
Strength to thy limbs, and comfort in thy breast?
Who marks with kindest care thy daily lot?
Whose arm sustains thee though thou seest it not?
Whose watchful eye observes thy secret ways?
Who writes the record of thy fleeting days?
Go, ask the stream that rolls in torrents by,
Ask of the stars that light the darken'd sky,
Or of the fields, array'd in garments fair,
Or of the birds that warble in the air.
Or of the mountain-lilies wet with dew,
Or of the trees, and they will tell thee who,—
Then lift thine eyes adoring to his throne,
And bow thy heart to Him, the everlasting One.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/On a Child two and a half years old, who wiped the tears of his Father with his dying hand

On a Child of two and a half years old, who wiped the tears of his Father with his dying hand.
Pale was the little polish'd brow
 That lately bloomed so fair,
And speechless lay the baby-boy,
 His parents' pride and care.
The struggle and the fever-pang
 That shook his frame were past,
And there, with fix'd and wishful glance
 He lay,—to breathe his last.
Upon his sorrowing father's face
 He gazed with dying eye,
Then raised a cold and feeble hand
 His starting tears to dry.
And so he wip'd those weeping eyes
 Even with his parting breath;
Oh! tender deed of infant love,
 How beautiful in death!
Yes,—ere that gentle soul forsook
 The fainting, trembling clay,
It caught the spirit of that world
 Where tears are wip'd away.
And still its cherish'd image gleams
 Upon the parent's eye,
A guiding-cherub to that home
 Where every tear is dry.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Prayer at entering School

Prayer at entering School.
Lord!—lead my heart to learn,
 Prepare my ears to hear,
And let me useful knowledge seek
 In thy most holy fear.
Oh, make me kindly treat
 My dear companions, all,
Nor let me causeless anger feel,
 Nor in temptation fall.
If unforgiven sin
 Within my bosom lies,
Or evil motives linger there
 To offend thy perfect eyes—
Remove them far away.
 Inspire me with thy love,
That I may please thee here below.
 And dwell with thee above.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/The Bee and Butterfly

The Bee and Butterfly.
"Come, neighbour Bee," said Butterfly,
 "And spend a merry hour,
For cloudless is the summer sky,
 And fragrant every flower;
The Humming-bird a party gives,
 Closed by a ball in state,
A fashionable life she lives,
 I'll shew you to the fête.
Here is her card, she sent it down,
 She meant to call, no doubt,
But knew your Queen was apt to frown,
 And you are always out."
But to the Butterfly, the Bee
 Replied, with serious brow,
"Suppose you work an hour with me,
 I'm not at leisure now.
By daily industry I live,
 Say, will you aid my task?
And bear this pollen to the hive,
 If I do what you ask?
Perhaps you'd better toil a while
 For your own winter store,
For Summer wears a fleeting smile,
 And Autumn's at the door."
"Good bye," the Butterfly rejoin'd,
 "You've grown a mope, I see,
There's nothing hurts a brilliant mind,
 Like stupid industry."
And so, the Bee with cheerful care,
 Pursued on pinions light,
Thro' the vast regions of the air,
 Her trackless path aright.
The tallest trees she ventured up,
 And scal'd the vine-clad wall,
Singing and tasting every cup,
 But temperate in all.
One morn, as from her honied cell,
 'Mid Autumn's frost she sped,
Beneath a flowret's wither'd bell
 The Butterfly lay dead.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/The Dove

The Dove.
There was a lonely ark,
That sail'd o'er waters dark;
 And wide around,
Not one tall tree was seen,
No flower, nor leaf of green,
 All—all were drown'd.
Then a soft wing was spread,
And o'er the billows dread,
 A meek dove flew;
But on that shoreless tide
No living thing she spied,
 To cheer her view.
There was no chirping sound
O'er that wide watery bound,
 To soothe her wo;
But the cold surges spread
Their covering o'er the dead,
 That slept below.
So to the ark she fled,
With weary, drooping head,
 To seek for rest;
Christ is thy ark, my love,
Thou art the timid dove,—
 Fly to his breast.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/The Dog

The Dog.
"He will not come," said the gentle child,
 And she patted the poor dog's head,
And pleasantly call'd him, and fondly smil'd,
But he heeded her not, in his anguish wild,
 Nor arose from his lowly bed.
'Twas his master's grave, where he chose to rest,
 He guarded it night and day;
The love that glow'd in his grateful breast,
For the friend that had fed, controll'd, caress'd,
 Might never fade away.
And when the long grass rustled near,
 Beneath some traveller's tread,
He started up with a quivering ear,
For he thought 'twas the step of that master dear,
 Returning from the dead.
And sometimes, when a storm drew nigh,
 And the clouds were dark and fleet,
He tore the turf with a mournful cry,
As if he would force his way, or die,
 To his much lov'd master's feet.
So, there through the summer's heat he lay,
 Till autumn nights were bleak;
Till his eye grew dim with his hope's decay,
And he pin'd, and pin'd, and wasted away,
 A skeleton gaunt and weak.
And pitying children often brought
 Their offerings of meat and bread,
And to coax him away to their homes they sought,
But his buried friend he ne'er forgot,
 Nor stray'd from his lonely bed.
Cold winter came with an angry sway,
 And the snow lay deep and sore;
And his moaning grew fainter day by day,
Till there on the spot where his master lay,
 He fell, to rise no more.
And when he struggled with mortal pain,
 And death was by his side,
With one loud cry that shook the plain,
He call'd for his master, but all in vain,
 Then stretch'd himself and died.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/The Garden

The Garden.
Come, dear little friend,
 To the garden we'll go,
I've water'd my rose-plants,
 Come see how they grow.
The first one that blossoms,
 My mother's must be,
For as I watch these rose-buds.
 She watch'd over me.
Here, here are some pinks,
 For your bosom and hair,
'T is the pencil of Heaven
 That hath dy'd them so fair.
How thick the young violets
 Spring up at our feet;
Let us love the kind hand
 That hath made them so sweet.
Is it time for our school?
 Then we'll thither repair,
And the smile of our teachers
 Will welcome us there.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Spanish Dancer

​THE SPANISH DANCER
As a lit match first flickers in the hands Before it flames, and darts out from all sides Bright, twitching tongues, so, ringed by growing bands Of spectators—she, quivering, glowing stands Poised tensely for the dance—then forward glides
And suddenly becomes a flaming torch. Her bright hair flames, her burning glances scorch, And with a daring art at her command Her whole robe blazes like a fire-brand From which is stretched each naked arm, awake, Gleaming and rattling like a frightened snake.
And then, as though the fire fainter grows, She gathers up the flame—again it glows, As with proud gesture and imperious air She flings it to the earth; and it lies there Furiously flickering and crackling still— Then haughtily victorious, but with sweet Swift smile of greeting, she puts forth her will And stamps the flames out with her small firm feet.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Tomb of a Young Girl

​TOMB OF A YOUNG GIRL
We still remember! The same as of yore All that has happened once again must be. As grows a lemon-tree upon the shore— It was like that—your light, small breasts you bore, And his blood's current coursed like the wild sea.
That god— who was the wanderer, the slim Despoiler of fair women; he—the wise,— But sweet and glowing as your thought of him Who cast a shadow over your young limb While bending like your arched brows o'er your eyes.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Boy

​THE BOY
I wish I might become like one of these Who, in the night on horses wild astride, With torches flaming out like loosened hair On to the chase through the great swift wind ride. I wish to stand as on a boat and dare The sweeping storm, mighty, like flag unrolled In darkness but with helmet made of gold That shimmers restlessly. And in a row, Behind me in the dark, ten men that glow With helmets that are restless, too, like mine, Now old and dull, now clear as glass they shine. One stands by me and blows a blast apace On his great flashing trumpet and the sound Shrieks through the vast black solitude around Through which, as through a wild mad dream we race. The houses fall behind us on their knees, Before us bend the streets and them we gain, The great squares yieled to us and them we seize— And on our steeds rush like the roar of rain.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Bride

​THE BRIDE
Call me, Beloved! Call aloud to me! Thy bride her vigil at the window keeps; The evening wanes to dusk, the dimness creeps Down empty alleys of the old plane-tree.
O! Let thy voice enfold me close about, Or from this dark house, lonely and remote, Through deep blue gardens where gray shadows float I will pour forth my soul with hands stretched out . . .
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Woman who Loves

​THE WOMAN WHO LOVES
Ah yes! I long for you. To you I glide And lose myself—for to you I belong. The hope that hitherto I have denied Imperious comes to me as from your side Serious, unfaltering and swift and strong.
Those times: the times when I was quite alone By memories wrapt that whispered to me low, My silence was the quiet of a stone Over which rippling murmuring waters flow.
But in these weeks of the awakening Spring Something within me has been freed—something That in the past dark years unconscious lay, Which rises now within me and commands And gives my poor warm life into your hands Who know not what I was that Yesterday.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Book of a Monk's Life

This page includes translations of five short sections from an extended sequence, beginning in German with the lines: Ich lebe mein Leben in wachsenden Ringen, / So hat man sie gemalt; vor allem einer, / Ich habe viele Brüder in Sutanen / Ich bin, du Ängstlicher. Hörst du mich nicht / and Ich liebe meines Wesens Dunkelstunden,
​THE BOOK OF HOURS
​ The Book of a Monk's Life
I live my life in circles that grow wide And endlessly unroll, I may not reach the last, but on I glide Strong pinioned toward my goal.
About the old tower, dark against the sky, The beat of my wings hums, I circle about God, sweep far and high On through milleniums.
Am I a bird that skims the clouds along, Or am I a wild storm, or a great song?
​Many have painted her. But there was one Who drew his radiant colours from the sun. Mysteriously glowing through a background dim When he was suffering she came to him, And all the heavy pain within his heart Rose in his hands and stole into his art. His canvas is the beautiful bright veil Through which her sorrow shines. There where the frail Texture o'er her sad lips is closely drawn A trembling smile softly begins to dawn . . . Though angels with seven candles light the place You cannot read the secret of her face.
​In cassocks clad I have had many brothers In southern cloisters where the laurel grows, They paint Madonnas like fair human mothers And I dream of young Titians and of others In which the God with shining radiance glows.
But though my vigil constantly I keep My God is dark—like woven texture flowing, A hundred drinking roots, all intertwined; I only know that from His warmth I'm growing. More I know not: my roots lie hidden deep My branches only are swayed by the wind.
​Thou Anxious One! And dost thou then not hear Against thee all my surging senses sing? About thy face in circles drawing near My thought floats like a fluttering white wing.
Dost thou not see, before thee stands my soul In silence wrapt my Springtime's prayer to pray? But when thy glance rests on me then my whole Being quickens and blooms like trees in May.
When thou art dreaming then I am thy Dream, But when thou art awake I am thy Will Potent with splendour, radiant and sublime, Expanding like far space star-lit and still Into the distant mystic realm of Time.
​I love my life's dark hours In which my senses quicken and grow deep, While, as from faint incense of faded flowers Or letters old, I magically steep Myself in days gone by: again I give Myself unto the past:—again I live.
Out of my dark hours wisdom dawns apace, Infinite Life unrolls its boundless space . . .
Then I am shaken as a sweeping storm Shakes a ripe tree that grows above a grave 'Round whose cold clay the roots twine fast and warm— And Youth's fair visions that glowed bright and brave, Dreams that were closely cherished and for long, Are lost once more in sadness and in song.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Knight

​THE KNIGHT
The Knight rides forth in coat of mail Into the roar of the world. And here is Life: the vines in the vale And friend and foe, and the feast in the hall, And May and the maid, and the glen and the grail; God's flags afloat on every wall In a thousand streets unfurled.
Beneath the armour of the Knight Behind the chain's black links Death crouches and thinks and thinks: "When will the sword's blade sharp and bright Forth from the scabbard spring And cut the network of the cloak Enmeshing me ring on ring— When will the foe's delivering stroke Set me free To dance And sing?"
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Panther

​THE PANTHER
His weary glance, from passing by the bars, Has grown into a dazed and vacant stare; It seems to him there are a thousand bars And out beyond those bars the empty air.
The pad of his strong feet, that ceaseless sound Of supple tread behind the iron bands, Is like a dance of strength circling around, While in the circle, stunned, a great will stands.
But there are times the pupils of his eyes Dilate, the strong limbs stand alert, apart, Tense with the flood of visions that arise Only to sink and die within his heart;
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Neighbour

​THE NEIGHBOUR
Strange violin! Dost thou follow me? In many foreign cities, far away, Thy lone voice spoke to me like memory. Do hundreds play thee, or does but one play?
Are there in all great cities tempest-tossed Men who would seek the rivers but for thee,
Who, but for thee, would be forever lost? Why drifts thy lonely voice always to me? Why am I the neighbour always Of those who force to sing thy trembling strings? Life is more heavy—thy song says— Than the vast, heavy burden of all things.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/The Poet

​THE POET
You Hour! From me you ever take your flight, Your swift wings wound me as they whir along; Without you void would be my day and night, Without you I'll not capture my great song.
I have no earthly spot where I can live, I have no love, I have no household fane, And all the things to which myself I give Impoverish me with richness they attain.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 23/June 1883/Evolution

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* EVOLUTION.
By H. H. BOYESEN.
I.
BROAD were the bases of all being laid On pillars sunk in the unfathomed deep Of universal void and primal sleep. Some mighty will there was, in sooth, that swayed The misty atoms which inhabited The barren, unillumined fields of space; A breath, perchance, that whirled the mists apace, And shook the heavy indolence that weighed Upon the moveless vapors. Oh, what vast, Resounding undulations of effect Awoke that breath! What dizzying aeons passed Ere yet a lichen-patch the bare rock flecked! Thus rolls with boom of elemental strife The ancestry e'en of the meanest life.
II.
I am the child of earth and air and sea!
My lullaby by hoarse Silurian storms
Was chanted; and through endless changing forms
Of plant and bird and beast unceasingly
The toiling ages wrought to fashion me.
Lo, these large ancestors have left a breath
Of their strong souls in mine, defying death
And change. I grow and blossom as the tree,
And ever feel the deep-delving earthy roots
Binding me daily to the common clay.
But with its airy impulse upward shoots
My life into the realms of light and day;
And thou, O Sea, stern mother of my soul,
Thy tempests sing in me, thy billows roll!
III.
A sacred kinship I would not forego
Binds me to all that breathes; through endless strife
The calm and deathless dignity of life
Unites each bleeding victim to its foe.
What life is in its essence, who doth know?
The iron chain that all creation girds
Encompassing myself and beasts and birds,
Forges its bond unceasing from below— From water, stone, and plant, e'en unto man.
Within the rose a pulse that answered mine
(Though hushed and silently its life-tide ran)
I oft have felt; but when with joy divine
I hear the song-thrush warbling in my brain,
I glory in this vast creation's chain.
IV.
I stood and gazed with wonder blent with awe
Upon the giant footprints Nature left
Of her primeval march in yonder cleft;
A fern-leaf's airy woof, a reptile's claw,
In their eternal slumber there I saw
In deftly-wrought sarcophagi of stone.
What humid tempests, from rank forests blown,
Whirled from its parent stem yon slender straw?
What scaly creature of a monstrous breed
Bore yonder web-foot through the tepid tide?
Oh, what wide vistas thronged with mighty deed
And mightier thought have here mine eyes descried!—
Come, a fraternal grasp, thou hand of stone! The flesh that once was thine is now mine own.
V.
Sublime is life, though in beginnings base At first enkindled. In this clod of mold Beats with faint spirit-pulse the heart of gold That warms the lily's cheek; its silent grace Dwells unborn 'neath this sod. Fain would I trace The potent mystery which, like Midas' hand, Thrills the mean clay into refulgence grand; For, gazing down the misty aisles of space And time, upon my sight vast visions throng Of the imperial destiny of man. The life that throbbed in plant and beast ere long Will break still wider orbits in its van— A race of peace-robed conquerors and kings, Achieving evermore diviner things.
—From "Idyls of Norway."