OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Percival Lowell — an afterglow/Quotations

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QUOTATIONS
BEFORE presenting the quotations from his letters, these tokens of appreciation of his genius by Dr. Lowell's contemporaries, Professor Emeritus Barrett Wendell, of Harvard, and the late Lafcadio Hearn, will illuminate them and charm the reader. In a letter to Dr. Lowell, from Japan, Professor Wendell says:
(B.W.)
​In a published correspondence between Mr. Hearn and his friend George M. Gould, Esq., Mr. Gould writes: "Perhaps I should not have succeeded in getting Hearn to attempt 'Japan' had it not been for a little book that fell into his hands during his stay with me. In sending it to me he wrote:
"Hearneyboy."
"'P.S.—Let something else go to H———, and read this book instead. May God eternally bless and infinitely personalize the man who wrote this book! Please don't skip one solitary line of it and don't delay reading it,—because something, much! is going to go out of it into your heart and life and stay there! I have just finished this book and feel like John of Patmos,—only a d—d sight better. He who shall skip one word of this book let his portion be cut off and his name blotted out of the Book of Life.'"
Later came a note about the book which brought this unalloyed and characteristic touch:
IN HIS JAPANESE GARDEN—TŌKYŌ
​ematician. But you will notice that his divine poetry touches only that which no scientific knowledge can explain,—that which no mathematics can solve,—that which must remain mysterious throughout all conceivable space and time—the fluttering of the Human Soul in its chrysalis, which it at once hates and loves, and hates because it loves, and strives to burst through, and still fears unspeakably to break,—though dimly conscious of the infinite ghostly Peace beyond."
# Perception of an object costs

Perception of an object costs Precise the Object's loss — Perception in itself a Gain Replying to its Price —
The Object Absolute — is nought — Perception sets it fair And then upbraids a Perfectness That situates so far —
# Poems (Emerson, 1847)/To Ellen

TO ELLEN,
AT THE SOUTH.
The green grass is bowing, The morning wind is in it; 'Tis a tune worth thy knowing, Though it change every minute.
'Tis a tune of the spring; Every year plays it over To the robin on the wing, And to the pausing lover.
O'er ten thousand, thousand acres, Goes light the nimble zephyr; The Flowers—tiny sect of Shakers— Worship him ever.
​Hark to the winning sound! They summon thee, dearest,— Saying, 'We have dressed for thee the ground, Nor yet thou appearest.
'O hasten; 'tis our time, Ere yet the red Summer Scorch our delicate prime, Loved of bee,—the tawny hummer.
'O pride of thy race! Sad, in sooth, it were to ours, If our brief tribe miss thy face, We poor New England flowers.
'Fairest, choose the fairest members Of our lithe society; June's glories and September's Show our love and piety.
'Thou shalt command us all,— April's cowslip, summer's clover, ​To the gentian in the fall, Blue-eyed pet of blue-eyed lover.
'O come, then, quickly come! We are budding, we are blowing; And the wind that we perfume Sings a tune that's worth the knowing.'
# Poems (Emerson, 1847)/The Snow-Storm

THE SNOW-STORM.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, Arrives the snow, and, driving o'er the fields, Seems nowhere to alight: the whited air Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
Come see the north wind's masonry. Out of an unseen quarry evermore Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer Curves his white bastions with projected roof Round every windward stake, or tree, or door. Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work ​So fanciful, so savage, nought cares he For number or proportion. Mockingly, On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths; A swan-like form invests the hidden thorn; Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, Maugre the farmer's sighs; and, at the gate, A tapering turret overtops the work. And when his hours are numbered, and the world Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone, Built in an age, the mad wind's night-work, The frolic architecture of the snow.
# Poems (Emerson, 1847)/The Visit

THE VISIT.
Askest, 'How long thou shalt stay,' Devastator of the day? Know, each substance, and relation, Thorough nature's operation, Hath its unit, bound, and metre; And every new compound Is some product and repeater,— Product of the early found. But the unit of the visit, The encounter of the wise,— Say, what other metre is it Than the meeting of the eyes? Nature poureth into nature Through the channels of that feature. Riding on the ray of sight, More fleet than waves or whirlwinds go, ​Or for service, or delight, Hearts to hearts their meaning show, Sum their long experience, And import intelligence. Single look has drained the breast; Single moment years confessed. The duration of a glance Is the term of convenance, And, though thy rede be church or state, Frugal multiples of that. Speeding Saturn cannot halt; Linger,—thou shalt rue the fault; If Love his moment overstay, Hatred's swift repulsions play.
# Poems (Emerson, 1847)/The Park

THE PARK.
The prosperous and beautiful To me seem not to wear The yoke of conscience masterful, Which galls me everywhere.
I cannot shake off the god; On my neck he makes his seat; I look at my face in the glass,— My eyes his eyeballs meet.
Enchanters! enchantresses! Your gold makes you seem wise; The morning mist within your grounds More proudly rolls, more softly lies.
​Yet spake yon purple mountain, Yet said yon ancient wood, That Night or Day, that Love or Crime, Leads all souls to the Good.
# Poems (Emerson, 1847)/The Problem

THE PROBLEM.
I like a church; I like a cowl; I love a prophet of the soul; And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles; Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowled churchman be.
Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure?
Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle; Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old; ​The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below,— The canticles of love and woe; The hand that rounded Peter's dome, And groined the aisles of Christian Rome, Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew;— The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Know'st thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Of leaves, and feathers from her breast? Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn each annual cell? Or how the sacred pine-tree adds To her old leaves new myriads? Such and so grew these holy piles, Whilst love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, As the best gem upon her zone; ​And Morning opes with haste her lids, To gaze upon the Pyramids; O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, As on its friends, with kindred eye; For, out of Thought's interior sphere, These wonders rose to upper air; And Nature gladly gave them place, Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass; Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast soul that o'er him planned; And the same power that reared the shrine, Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs, And through the priest the mind inspires. ​The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken; The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the fathers wise,— The Book itself before me lies, Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakspeare of divines. His words are music in my ear, I see his cowled portrait dear; And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be.
# Poems (Emerson, 1847)/The Rhodora

THE RHODORA:
ON BEING ASKED, WHENCE IS THE FLOWER?
In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook, To please the desert and the sluggish brook. The purple petals, fallen in the pool, Made the black water with their beauty gay; Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool, And court the flower that cheapens his array. Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why This charm is wasted on the earth and sky, Tell them, dear, that if eyes were made for seeing, Then Beauty is its own excuse for being: Why thou wert there, O rival of the rose! I never thought to ask, I never knew; But, in my simple ignorance, suppose The self-same Power that brought me there brought you.
# Poems (Emerson, 1847)/Thine Eyes still Shined

THINE EYES STILL SHINED.
Thine eyes still shined for me, though far I lonely roved the land or sea: As I behold yon evening star, Which yet beholds not me.
This morn I climbed the misty hill, And roamed the pastures through; How danced thy form before my path Amidst the deep-eyed dew!
When the redbird spread his sable wing, And showed his side of flame; When the rosebud ripened to the rose, In both I read thy name.
# Poems (Davidson)/Remarks on the Immorality of the Stage

REMARKS ON THE IMMORALITY OF THE STAGE.
Why is it that the ear of modesty must be shocked by the indelicacy and immorality which obstinately clings to the stage, that vehicle of good or evil, that splendid engine whose movements may shed a halo of brilliancy around it, or leave behind the blackened traces of its desolating progress?
Can the eye of innocence gaze. even upon the mimic characters of vice, or the ear of delicacy become familiarized to the rude and boisterous, or the more dangerously subtle insinuations of depravity, without quitting the fascinating scene less fastidious in its feelings, less sensible to the bold intrusions of barefaced wickedness? No: though the change be slow and almost imperceptible, still it will not be the less certain; the fatal poison will creep to the very vitals of virtue, and stamp deep stains upon the spotless tablet of innocence.
Must, then, all that is bright and pure be shut out from those scenes of fascination, and delight? Must that very purity which should be cherished and guarded as a sacred deposit, be converted into a chain wherewith to shackle the amusements of its possessor? Would not the frequent indulgence of this amusement be holding forth a strong temptation to those who are but partially fortified in the principles of rectitude to overleap the ​crumbling ill-formed barrier, and plunge at once into the boundless ocean of vice and immorality?
O why will not authors, those helmsmen in the mighty vessel of improvement, dash the countless stains from the charts which they are holding to our eyes, and transform their blackened pages to pure, spotless records of truth and virtue? Then we should no longer mark the blush of offended modesty mantling the.cheek of sensibility, or the frown of disapprobation clouding the pure brow of refinement and morality. The stage would then become the guardian and the friend, instead of the fell destroyer of all that is pure and virtuous in the human breast.
# Poems (Laflin)

POEMS
POEMS
BY
ELLEN P. LAFLIN
With Illustrations by
THE AUTHOR
THE GRAFTON PRESS
NEW YORKMCMIX
Copyright, 1909, by
ELLEN P. LAFLIN
TO MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
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.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Philosophical Studies

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Philosophical Studies."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* Philosophical Studies (1905) by David G. Ritchie.
* Philosophical Studies (1922) by G. E. Moore.
* Philosophical Studies (1953) by Heinrich Gomperz.
# Philosophical Terminology

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
(I.) Mind, N.S., Vol. 8, No. 31 (July, 1899), pp. 289-332. (II.) Mind, N.S., Vol. 8, No. 32 (Oct., 1899), pp. 467-491. (III.) Mind, N.S., Vol. 9, No. 33 (Jan., 1900), pp. 46-61.

## Contents

I. Signs.
II. Causes of the state.
III. Prospects of remedies.
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 1936, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 87 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 (Eckley)/The Nightingale's Cry

Bellagio, 1861.
# Poems (Eckley)/The Orphans

Chamounix, 1861.
# Poems (Eckley)/The House of Shadows

Florence; Nov., 1861.
# Poems (Eckley)/The Mer de Glace

Chamounix, 1861.
# Poems (Eckley)/The Haunted Chapel

Lucca.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/The Tables Turned

VI.
THE TABLES TURNED;
AN EVENING SCENE, ON THE SAME SUBJECT.
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks; Why all this toil and trouble? Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books, Or surely you'll grow double.
The sun, above the mountain's head, A freshening lustre mellow Through all the long green fields has spread, His first sweet evening yellow.
Books! 'tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland Linnet, How sweet his music! on my life There's more of wisdom in it.
​And hark! how blithe the Throstle sings! He, too, is no mean preacher: Come forth into the light of things, Let Nature be your teacher.
She has a world of ready wealth, Our minds and hearts to bless— Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health, Truth breathed by cheerfulness.
One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things; —We murder to dissect.
Enough of Science and of Art; Close up these barren leaves; Come forth, and bring with you a heart That watches and receives.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/The power of Armies

XXX.
1811.
The power of Armies is a visible thing, Formal, and circumscribed in time and place; But who the limits of that power can trace Which a brave People into light can bring, Or hide, at will,—for Freedom combating, By just revenge enflamed? No foot can chase. No eye can follow to a fatal place That power, that spirit, whether on the wing Like the strong wind, or sleeping like the wind Within its awful caves.—From year to year Springs this indigenous produce far and near; No craft this subtle element can bind, Rising like water from the soil, to find In every nook a lip that it may cheer.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/The fairest, brightest

III.
The fairest, brightest hues of ether fade; The sweetest notes must terminate and die; O Friend! thy flute has breathed a harmony Softly resounded through this rocky glade; Such strains of rapture as the Genius played In his still haunt on Bagdad's summit high; He who stood visible to Mirzah's eye, Never before to human sight betrayed. Lo, in the vale the mists of evening spread! The visionary Arches are not there, Nor the green Islands, nor the shining Seas; Yet sacred is to me this Mountain's head, From which I have been lifted on the breeze Of harmony, above all earthly care.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/The two April mornings

XVI.
THE
TWO APRIL MORNINGS.
We walked along, while bright and red Uprose the morning sun; And Matthew stopped, he looked, and said, "The will of God be done!"
A village Schoolmaster was he, With hair of glittering gray; As blithe a man as you could see On a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass, And by the steaming rills, We travelled merrily, to pass A day among the hills.
​"Our work," said I, "was well begun; Then, from thy breast what thought, Beneath so beautiful a sun, So sad a sigh has brought?"
A second time did Matthew stop; And fixing still his eye Upon the eastern mountain-top, To me he made reply:
"Yon cloud with that long purple cleft Brings fresh into my mind A day like this which I have left Full thirty years behind.
"And just above yon slope of corn Such colours, and no other, Were in the sky, that April morn, Of this the very brother.
"With rod and line I sued the sport Which that sweet season gave, And, coming to the church, stopped short Beside my daughter's grave.
​"Nine summers had she scarcely seen, The pride of all the vale; And then she sang;—she would have been A very nightingale.
"Six feet in earth my Emma lay; And yet I loved her more, For so it seemed, than till that day I e'er had loved before.
"And, turning from her grave, I met Beside the church-yard Yew A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet With points of morning dew.
"A basket on her head she bare; Her brow was smooth and white: To see a Child so very fair, It was a pure delight!
"No fountain from its rocky cave E'er tripped with foot so free; She seemed as happy as a wave That dances on the sea.
​"There came from me a sigh of pain Which I could ill confine; I looked at her and looked again: —And did not wish her mine."
Matthew is in his grave, yet now Methinks I see him stand, As at that moment, with his bough Of wilding in his hand.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/The martial courage

XVI.
The martial courage of a day is vain— An empty noise of death the battle's roar— If vital hope be wanting to restore, Or fortitude be wanting to sustain, Armies or Kingdoms. We have heard a strain Of triumph, how the labouring Danube bore A weight of hostile corses: drenched with gore Were the wide fields, the hamlets heaped with slain. Yet see, the mighty tumult overpast, Austria a Daughter of her Throne hath sold! And her Tyrolean Champion we behold Murdered like one ashore by shipwreck cast, Murdered without relief. Oh! blind as bold, To think that such assurance can stand fast!
# Poems for our Children/Prayer

PRAYER.
Our Father in heaven, We hallow thy name! May thy kingdom so holy, On earth be the same— O, give to us, daily, Our portion of bread! It is from thy bounty That all must be fed.
Forgive our transgressions, And teach us to know That humble compassion That pardons each foe— Keep us from temptation, From weakness and sin— And thine shall be glory Forever—amen!
# Poems for our Children/Summer Morning

SUMMER MORNING.
How beautiful the morning, When summer days are long; O, we will rise betimes and hear The wild-bird's happy song— For when the sun pours down his ray The bird will cease to sing; She 'll seek the cool and silent shade, And sit with folded wing.
Up in the morning early— 'T is Nature's gayest hour! There 's pearls of dew upon the grass And fragrance on the flower.— ​Up in the morning early, And we will bound abroad, And fill our hearts with melody, And raise our songs to God.
# Poems for our Children/Spring

SPRING.
The pleasant Spring has come again, The pretty birds are here, The grass grows in the gentle rain, And buds and flowers appear— I love to see the sky so clear, And all things look so gay— The fairest month in all the year Is sweet and sunny May.
And well I know the cold deep snow And winter storms are past, And merrily now to school I'll go, Nor fear the chilling blast— ​I love the sun, the gentle wind, And bird, and flower, and bud, And well I love my teacher kind, But best I love my God.
# Poems for our Children/The Lesson

THE LESSON.
'Come here, my son,' the father said— 'What lesson have you read today?' The little prattler raised his head, And shook his curls away, And answered with an earnest eye, 'My father, I have read the sky.'
​'How read the sky?'—'Yes, father, yes— I saw a beauteous rainbow there, And then I thought, how fair it is— And read, God made it fair; You say that everywhere around Lessons of wisdom may be found.
'O, father, tell me how I can Read all I see in earth or sky?' 'My son, the God who fashioned man Can guide his heart and eye, To him as to thy Master look— He made, and he can teach the book.'
# Poems for our Children/The Mole and the Eagle

THE MOLE AND THE EAGLE.
The mole is blind, and under ground, Snug as a nest her home is found; She dwells secure, nor dreams of sight— What need of eyes where all is night!
The eagle proudly soars on high, Bright as the sunbeams is his eye— To lofty rocks he wings his way, And sits amid the blaze of day.
The mole needs not the eagle's eye, Unless she had his wings to fly— The light of day no joy would give, If under ground she still must live.
​And sad 'twould for the eagle be, If like the mole, he could not see, Unless you took his wings away, And shut him from the hope of day.
But both live happy in their way— One loves the night—and one the day— And God formed each, and formed their sphere, And thus his goodness doth appear.
# Poems for our Children/The Stars

THE STARS.
'See, the stars are coming In the far blue skies! Mother, look! they brighten— Are they angel's eyes?'
'No, my child, the splendor Of those stars is given, Like the hues of flowers, By the God of heaven.'
'Mother, if I study, Sure He 'll let me know Why those stars he lighted O'er our earth to glow:'
'Child—what God has finished Has a glorious aim,— Thine it is to worship And love His holy name.'
# Poems for our Children/Sabbath Morning

SABBATH MORNING.
Welcome, welcome, quiet morning— I 've no task, no toil to-day; Now the Sabbath morn returning, Says a week has passed away.
Let me think how time is gliding; Soon the longest life departs; Nothing human is abiding, Save the love of humble hearts;
Love to God, and to our neighbor, Makes our purest happiness; Vain the wish, the care the labor, Earth's poor trifles to possess.
Swift my childhood's dreams are passing, Like the startled doves they fly, Or bright clouds, each other chasing, Over yonder quiet sky.
Soon I 'll hear earth's flattering story, Soon its visions will be mine— ​Shall I covet wealth and glory? Shall I bow at pleasure's shrine?
No, my God—one prayer I raise thee, From my pure and happy heart, Never let me cease to praise thee— Never from thy fear depart.
Then, when years have gathered o'er me, And the world is sunk in shade, Heaven's bright realm will rise before me, There my treasure will be laid.
# Poems for our Children/My Mother's Sweet Kiss

MY MOTHER'S SWEET KISS.
I have learned my lesson, And mother said She would give me a kiss When I went to bed— I do not want sugar-plums, Candy and cake, They make my mind dull, And my head to ache.
My mother's sweet kiss Is my best reward— To gain her smile ​I will study hard— And when I am good, She has always said She would give me a kiss When I went to bed.