OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Skies

Ay! gloriously thou standest there, Beautiful, boundless firmament! That swelling wide o'er earth and air, And round the horizon bent, With thy bright vault, and sapphire wall, Dost overhang and circle all.
Far, far below thee, tall old trees Arise, and piles built up of old, And hills, whose ancient summits freeze, In the fierce light and cold. The eagle soars his utmost height, Yet far thou stretchest o'er his flight.
Thou hast thy frowns--with thee on high, The storm has made his airy seat, Beyond that soft blue curtain lie His stores of hail and sleet. Thence the consuming lightnings break. There the strong hurricanes awake.
Yet art thou prodigal of smiles-- Smiles, sweeter than thy frowns are stem: Earth sends, from all her thousand isles, A shout at thy return. The glory that comes down from thee, Bathes, in deep joy, the land and sea.
The sun, the gorgeous sun, is thine, The pomp that brings and shuts the day, The clouds that round him change and shine, The airs that fan his way. Thence look the thoughtful stars, and there The meek moon walks the silent air.
The sunny Italy may boast The beauteous tints that flush her skies. And lovely, round the Grecian coast, May thy blue pillars rise. I only know how fair they stand, Around my own beloved land.
And they are fair - a charm is theirs, That earth, the proud green earth, has not With all the forms, and hues, and airs, That haunt her sweetest spot. We gaze upon thy calm pure sphere, And read of Heaven's eternal year.
Oh, when, amid the throng of men, The heart grows sick of hollow mirth, How willingly we turn us then Away from this cold earth, And look into thy azure breast, For seats of innocence and rest.
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 Skies can't keep their secret!

* "Secrets" in Poems: Second Series (1891)
* "The skies can't keep their secret!" in The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson (1924)
# The Skull

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Skull."
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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.
* The Skull by Philip Kindred Dick
* The Skull by Harold Ward
# The Sketcher in Tasmania

Serialized article, as published in Once a Week. Illustrated by the author.
* Part 1
* Part 2
# The New York Times/1916/11/22/City Takes Egg Inventory

CITY TAKES EGG INVENTORY.
Police Commissioner Woods, in co-operation with the Department of Health, began yesterday an investigation into the egg market here to determine whether there was any conspiracy to advance prices. The city authorities especially wish to ascertain if the report is true that speculators and storage men are accumulating large quantities of eggs and holding them back for higher prices.
Commissioner Woods has detailed Inspectors in every precinct in the city to ascertain the actual egg supply in New York. Their efforts will be supplemented by those of men from the Health Department. The Commissioner has asked storage men to submit figures showing the egg stock on hand as compared with a year ago, also the comparative wholesale prices.
Commissioner J. J. Dillon of the State Department of Food and Markets has already warned the egg dealers that they must obey the law regarding the representation of storage eggs as the fresh article. He threatens, if the existing law is disobeyed, that the state will require each egg to be stamped with the date it was placed in storage. He expressed an opinion that good storage eggs could today be sold for 33 cents a dozen, but he said he suspected of such character were now being disposed of at “strictly fresh” egg prices.
More than 32,000,000 eggs are used in New York City every week. The trade figures this number of eggs at 90,000 cases, each containing thirty dozen, which makes an actual total of 32,400,000 eggs.
“There is a great deal of misapprehension regarding the present price of eggs and its reasons,” said C. F. Droste, President of the wholesale egg firm of Droste & Snyder, at 177 Duane Street, yesterday. “There is no combination on the part of any of the storage men to keep prices up. It is purely an economic question, based on supply and demand. The shortage is now 1,000,000 cases or more, about 25 per cent. fewer eggs in cold storage now than a year ago.
“The demand from abroad has tended to advance the price, but since Nov. 1, the wholesale price has reached such a point that no more exportations have been made. The last exportations were on the basis of about 36 cents a dozen. The price is now 38 cents. Within the last week, however, inquiries from abroad have begun to come in. Should the price fall to 33 or 35 cents, England stands ready to take 100,000 cases at once, and even at the present rate exportations are likely to be resumed before Christmas.”
Mr. Drost said the same condition that had led to a cessation in the exportation of eggs also prevailed in the case of butter. Since the first of this year more than 20,000,000 pounds of butter has been sent from this country to Europe, but since Nov. 1 hardly any has gone abroad.
# The New York Times/1916/11/22/British Potato Census

BRITISH POTATO CENSUS.
LONDON, Nov. 21.—The Board of Trade has issued an order requiring all persons cultivating more than ten acres of in the kingdom to make a return of their potato stocks and contracts by Dec. 7.
# The New York Times/1916/11/22/Card System for Norway

CARD SYSTEM FOR NORWAY.
LONDON, Nov. 21.—The Royal Provision Committee of Norway has unanimously decided that a ticket system ought to be instituted to meet the food situation, according to a Copenhagen dispatch to the Exchange Telegraph Company quoting the Norwegian Food Minister. At a meeting in Christiania the Minister said that a great question had arisen as to whether the population of Norway should be put on a short food allowance.
The Minister added that neighboring neutral countries were organizing themselves as if they were participating in the war, and that in Sweden the German ticket system for grain and flour would be introduced.
# The New York Times/1916/11/22/Caught U-53 Message Sent to Bernstorff

Captain Angelo Sturlese of the Italian liner Dante Alighieri, which arrived yesterday from Genoa, told of an interesting wireless message he had picked up on the eastward voyage, which was sent by Commandant Hans Rose of the submarine U-53 to the German Ambassador. The Captain said that he left New York on Sunday, Oct. 8, about four hours after the West Point had been sunk off Nantucket Lightship, and took a zigzag course southward.
“At two o’clock on Monday morning,” Captain Sturlese continued, “the chief operator picked up a message from the U-53, calling Siasconsett station. No answer was received, and after repeating it three times the German submarine flashed this message broadcast in the hope that it would be picked up by some friendly ship and forwarded to Washington:
   “Count von Bernstorff, German Ambassador, Washington: “Have sunk several merchant steamships today. Am looking for nine more vessels. “COMMANDANT U-53.”
Captain Sturlese said that he zigzagged for five days after leaving New York, but did not see or hear anything more of any German submarine.
# The New York Times/1916/11/22/Bryan Sticks to Nebraska

BRYAN STICKS TO NEBRASKA
PITTSBURGH, Nov. 21.—William Jennings Bryan passed through here today and scouted the report that he intended to move away from Nebraska.
“Never in the twenty-nine years that I have lived in Nebraska have I been in harmony with so large a majority of the people there on political issues,” he said. “My home shall continue to be there, and there I will vote as long as I live. Mrs. Bryan and I arranged about four years ago to spend our Winters in Florida, and we shall spend part of the Summer in Asheville, N. C., but we shall spend part of the year in Nebraska, and that part will include Election Day.
“We were never more pleased with Nebraska than we are today. I firmly believe I shall have my Stat bhind me in my fight for prohibition. The Democracy of Nebraska was ‘wet’ in the primaries, but with the brewers, distilleries, and saloons closed, the Democracy will be ‘dry.’ We will now begin to build the organization on a ‘dry’ foundation.”
# The New York Times/1916/11/22/Chose Death to Blindness

CHOSE DEATH TO BLINDNESS
BRIDGEPORT, Conn., Nov. 21.—Depressed by the realization that she was going blind, Miss Irene Chornock, 24 years old, of Brooklyn, N. Y., hanged herself last night in the attic of the Greek Catholic Rectory. Her cousin, the Rev. Orestes P. Chornock, is pastor of that church. Her body was found this morning. Pinned to her dress was a note, which ended with four lines from “The Journey Onward,” by Moore, the girl's favorite author. The note read:
   This deed I have done myself. I have lost my vision. Life for me has lost its joy. I am of no earthly use, doomed soon to become a burden.
IRENE.
Before coming to visit Father Chornock, three weeks ago, the girl consulted an eye specialist in New York, who told her that constant reading had ruined her eyesight, and that it was only a matter of time when she would be totally blind. Miss Chornock had an aunt and a sister in Brooklyn.
# The New York Times/1916/11/22/Chinese Minister Dismissed

Chinese Minister Dismissed.
PEKING, Nov. 21.—Sung Hung-Yi, the Minister of the Interior, has been dismissed because of a controversy with Tuan Chi-Jui, the Premier.
# The Soul Of A Century/Three rings

THREE RINGS
Sultan Saladin was greatly worried, Lack of money vexed this famed ruler. He was told a Jew in near Damascus Had more money than he could make use of. So the Jew was called before the Caliph Who addressed him in a kindly manner: “Look, you Jews, of books you have a treasure, Your wise men possess all worldly knowledge, Tell me then, according to your judgement Which of all the Faiths you think is best?”
Saladin thus planned to trap the Hebrew: “If he’ll say the Jewish faith is highest, I’ll reply that he offended our faith And will order him to pay a forfeit. If he’ll say that my faith, or the Christian’s, I will ask why he had not adopted Teachings of Mohamed or of Christ. And again, he’ll have to pay a forfeit. I will find him guilty in each instance, Make him pay a fine and reprimand him.”
When the hoary Hebrew thus was questioned, For a while he deeply mused, then answered: “Mighty ruler, true, our books hold wisdom, Yet they do not answer every query. Our scholars do know many secrets But the Omniscient alone can know all; He who ever rules the earth and heaven, Who beholds all things and who outlives Time itself and nations and their rulers. He is nameless; no one e’er can see him; He is everywhere . . . Then what can I know? I will tell a story, won’t you please listen To an old man’s oft repeated story . . . . Once upon a time there lived a merchant With three sons he loved with same devotion, And he had a ring, a rare old jewel, Set with stones unmatched in all creation. This old jewel, each son sorely wanted, Each would have it, each one begged and pleaded That it be included with his heirloom.
So the father called a famous goldsmith: “Master, make two rings in every detail To be the same in workmanship and rareness As this ring that I have on my finger.”
When the goldsmith brought the rings he fashioned, They were so alike in every detail, That the father’s eyes alone detected Which among them was the first and true ring. Then he called his oldest son before him And presented him one ring, beseaching That he not reveal this to his brothers, Thus to spare them envy, aches and sorrow . . . Next in turn his second son he spoke to And with kindly words one ring he gave him, Asking that he not reveal this token. And the last son’s ring was thus presented . . . When the father died, the brothers parted Each one with his ring and each one thinking That his was the true and only jewel.
Mighty ruler, thus ’tis with religion. You with your ring live in sheer contentment . . . I with mine . . . the Christian with the third one . . . And only our Father up in heaven
He who gave them, knows who has the true ring.” For a while the Sultan meditated, Stroked his beard and nodded his approval: “On your way! Return in peace now brother! Unmolested bear your father’s jewel . . . .”
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/The tears within

THE TEARS WITHIN
When God was at His Mercy’s height, The Human heart He fashioned, And in eternal memory Placed therein his love impassioned.
And when His kind prophetic eye, Upon the heart had rested, God wept with joy when He beheld Happiness thus arrested.
But as he wept, into the heart A tear dropped, without malice, As oft a dewdrop falls within A floweret’s thirsty chalice.
And that is why Love brings a pain But a pain so dear and tender That we must pity hundredfold Hearts empty of its splendor.
And that is why Love holds of Joy And Sorrow equal measure, And often when the tear is stirred, The heart bursts with its treasure.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/To a white house in the old garden

TO A WHITE HOUSE IN THE OLD GARDEN
A wanderer paused upon his weary way And in fatigue, leaned on a heavy cane. His eyes roamed slowly across the rolling plain, He heaved a burdened sigh and softly spoke:
“You old white house, hid in the garden’s shade So far away beyond the mountain’s range, The swallows are returning from the South And looking for their old, deserted nests Along your coping, and you will welcome them. But I will never more return to you. I’ll never cross the doorstep dear to me Where she, who bore me and gave me my life, Paused every evening for a little while To see the stars shine through the branches of the trees. To Her, who died, the Stars are now the steps Beyond which rest the mysteries of God, And where the eyes of those who passed beyond Fill with strange luster. But their shadows still Fall darkly upon the hearts of those Who yet must wait for death upon the dreary earth.
You old white house, hid in the garden’s shade, Tell me if souls of lifeless things are similar To our souls, that never can be taught How to forget their sorrows and their ills. You old white house, hid in the garden’s shade, Tell me if you are grieved when strangers’ steps
Re-echo through your halls. And ore you waiting If I will return, like the swallows to their nests, To dream once more beneath your aged roof Those wondrous dreams . . . to list and hear again Her words of blessing, who has passed away, Words that still linger within your very walls To blend at night, when the strangers soundly sleep, With the sweet and dreamy whispering of the trees.”
Thus spoke the wanderer . . . and a gleaming tear Fell to the dust of that winding, endless road That stretched so far away . . To where? . . To where . .?
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/The song of an adventurer

THE SONG OF AN ADVENTURER
The home of my fathers was far, far away (How far and how long ago, I cannot learn) For lands that were steeped in a maddening fray, Shattered and ruined in a desperate fray For lands wasted thus, I no longer yearn.
When ’er I return I find ample proof That I am a stranger in this new found home. How strange all appears beneath the new roof, Where people are huddled beneath a low roof How strange and unkind the land I now roam.
The flames in my heart burn, fanned by a breeze In a desolate chamber I am forging my shield. I am longing to reach the realms of far seas, Over the waves of strange stormy seas, To strike at the elements and force them to yield.
When in my dreams the tempests I’ll face Feeble with rapture I’ll toss on the slopes Strange mystic hurricanes I will embrace Mysterious passions I will embrace, That do not mirror my unfathomed hopes.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/Three horsemen

THREE HORSEMEN
Three horsemen rode where the aged oak trees spread, Rode through the marshes, dark clouds overhead. The crimson sunset, tinged the skies aglow While the first man spoke his woe in accents slow.
“Never before have I so feared the fray But I’ve left my sister home alone today. She is so young, oh endless grief and woes, If she should fall into some stranger’s throes.”
Another cloud sped ’cross the heaven’s bleak, And the second horseman thus began to speak:
“A sister’s grieving heart will cease to bleed, Soon as she hears her lover’s pawing steed. I am worse off . . I left my wife at home, I dread to think of her, as thus I roam. And children too . . my heart is torn apart, One in her arms, another beneath her heart. As bitter as the fruits the hawthornes bear Are children raised without paternal care.”
’Twas not the wind that ’twixt the mountains stole, But the weeping of the third man’s tortured soul.
“I dare say, sister, wife, ’tis hard to bear, But I was forced to leave my mother there. Poor aged mother, she is so weak and bent, Like the willows that along the brook lament. Her eyes will weep ’till there’ll be tears no more, For I have never left my home before. ’Mid tears I think of her with every breath, Who’ll close her eyes when she is called by Death?”
And in the stillness, on and on they ride, Through darkened bogs and barren rocks beside. And ere the moon spilled o’er the river’s shore, The first man of his sister thinks no more. And when the battle cry is heard at last, The second horseman’s forehead brightens fast. The hostile camp at length is set ablaze, And still the third man sobs as through a haze. And ere the fogs conceal the setting sun, The bloody battle has been fought and won.
An eagle cleft the first man’s skull in two, And quenched his thirst in the freshly fallen dew.
Beneath the brush, where skulks the hungry beast, The second man was dragged for a wolf’s feast.
But the third man bore the banner on to fame, And died, still whispering his mother’s name.
And since he thinks of her, even though dead, A snowball tree grew out his moss decked bed. And on the tree a snow-white bird had flown, And sang . . . The blooms and leaves again have grown, The white bird sings, through night’s dominion. “My child” . . “Oh mother” . . What reunion!
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/Tiberius

TIBERIUS
(Venom of Judea)
Look! All the lights aglow, and yet you cannot fathom His soul§s true worth . . . . A shadow cast over the ages And he, who cast the shadow, no longer can be seen.
He ruled the world, himself a lonely beggar Surfeit with flatteries, through which he clearly saw. Detesting mankind, self as well detesting, He slew his soul, deprived of life’s Few pleasures by his fellow beings. He destroyed his soul, that he might further live, Wanting to live, that he might ridicule The undernourished life of starving souls.
And then he died, like a flickering feeble taper Whose flame was lit at night, but threw no light. The barking dogs who used to lick his footsteps With frothing mouths, attacked his memory, In dog-like manner, tearing it and yelping. Plebian brains called upon their inner lights, That they might better gauge and measure him According to the scales of scheming merchants.
And Tacitus who tried to paint on canvas The picture of his battered, murdered soul, Was so engrossed by the fervor of his painting, That only the image, not the soul, lives on.
Lights all aglow . . . and he is still in darkness. A mystery . . . a riddle . . . a shadow cast over the ages, And he, who cast the shadow, no longer can be seen.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/The scars of life

THE SCARS OF LIFE (Graveyard Blossoms)
VIII.
Before me lies a skull white-bleached and furrowed My eyes try hard to count each ridge of strife While in my mind, from out these convolutions, I weave a living picture of past life.
Love carved this furrow; envy cut this groove; This one meant bliss; ill fortune that one wrought; And these few shorter, straighter running furrows Are they not the paths of some former thought?
As my memory records this deathly picture, Thus the mind endows the skull with signs. If in your life you thought but less, old fellow, How much smoother could have been these lines!
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Soul Of A Century/Thy will be done

* related portals: Czech literature.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
THY WILL BE DONE
Thy will be done! Thou, who sees without strife The world’s far ends from your throne above the star; Who, with a loving eye, to these very ends brings life Across the plains and mystic depths afar; Who dwells above in the boundless realm of might, Encircled by the glamor of your suns; Thou, who commands all living creatures’ plight With a holy wisdom as yet attained by none,
Thy will for e’er be done!
Thy will be done! That will, which humbles low The heavenly court, attired in light’s robes; That will, which sets the very skies aglow And fills with bliss men’s most inspired souls. Our Father, as your will is solemnized By the angels and the blessed in your domain, So, on this earth it shall be recognized By all, your children, and thus it shall remain.
Thy will for e’er be done!
Thy will be done! When the aura of thy grace And the splendor of thy gifts brightens our life; When songs of gladness in our hearts find place, And when with joy and peace our soul is rife. Or when dark tempests gather overhead, And want or grief cast shadows on our days; When our earthly paths are crossed by foes we dread And tragic sorrow against our courage plays.
Thy will for e’er be done!
Thy will be done! As we linger o’er the bier Refusing consolation’s kind relief, Or when through the loss of those we treasured dear Our cheeks turn pale with an unspoken grief; Tis then we say, in times with gloom replete When the world to us seems barren, cold and drear, We, in our soul, find strength as we repeat; “Your gift. Oh Lord, to you return we here.”
Thy will for e’er be done!
Thy will be done! Let the seedlings of Thy laws Grow forth and bloom for ever in our hearts. We will accept and bear each heavy cross, Your mercy shall help us to carry out our parts. For we are weak; you give us strength, endurance, And lest we fall, we seek your helping hand. As through our life, so too at death’s appearance Oh comforter, we’ll do what e’er you may command.
Thy will for e’er be done!
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.