OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# La Bella Donna della Mia Mente

* "La Bella Donna della Mia Mente" in The Writings of Oscar Wilde (1907)
* "La Bella Donna della mia Mente" in The Poems of Oscar Wilde (1909)
# La Belle Dame sans Merci (revised, unsourced)

;1 Ah what can ail thee, wretched wight,  Alone and palely loitering; The sedge is wither’d from the lake,  And no birds sing.
;2 Ah what can ail thee, wretched wight,  So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full,  And the harvest’s done.
;3 I see a lilly on thy brow,  With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose  Fast withereth too.
;4 I met a lady in the meads  Full beautiful, a fairy’s child; Her hair was long, her foot was light,  And her eyes were wild.
;5 I set her on my pacing steed,  And nothing else saw all day long; For sideways would she lean, and sing  A faery’s song.
;6 I made a garland for her head,  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look’d at me as she did love,  And made sweet moan.
;7 She found me roots of relish sweet,  And honey wild, and manna dew, And sure in language strange she said,  I love thee true.
;8 She took me to her elfin grot,  And there she gaz’d and sighed deep, And there I shut her wild sad eyes—  So kiss’d to sleep.
;9 And there we slumber’d on the moss,  And there I dream’d, ah woe betide The latest dream I ever dream’d  On the cold hill side.
;10 I saw pale kings, and princes too,  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; Who cry’d—”Le belle Dame sans mercy  Hath thee in thrall!”
;11 I saw their starv’d lips in the gloom  With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke, and found me here  On the cold hill side.
;12 And this is why I sojourn here  Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,  And no birds sing.
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
# Love Songs (1825-1826)/Jamie Gay

Dated from the Scottish Book Trade Index.
JAMIE GAY.
As Jamie Gay gaed blithe his way,
Along the banks of Tweed,
A bonny lass as ever was,
Came tripping o'er the mead.
The hearty swain, untaught to feign,
The buxom nymph survey'd,
And full of glee, as lad could be,
Bespoke the blooming maid.
Dear lassie, tell, why by thysell
Thou lonely wanders't here?
My ewes, she cry'd, are straying wide;
Canst tell me, laddie, where?
To town I hie, he made reply,
Some pleasing sport to see;
But thou'st so neat, so trim, so sweet,
I'll seek thy ewes with thee.
She gave her hand, nor made a stand;
But lik'd the youth's intent;
O'er hill and dale, o'er plain and vale,
Right merrily they went.
The birds sang sweet the pair to greet,
And flow'rets bloom'd around,
And as they walk'd, of love they talk'd.
And lover's joys when crown'd.
​And now the sun had rose to noon,
The zenith of his pow'r.
When to the shade their steps they made,
To pass the mid-day hour.
The bonny lad row'd in his plaid
The lass, who scorned to frown;
She soon forgot the ewes she sought,
And he to gang to town.
# Love Songs (1825-1826)/'Twas post meridian

Dated from the Scottish Book Trade Index.
'TWAS POST MERIDIAN:
'Twas post meridian half past four;
by signal I from Nancy parted,
At six she linger'd on the shore,
with uplift hands and broken-hearted,
At seven, while taunting the fore-stay,
I saw her faint, or else 'twas fancy,
At eight we all got under weigh,
and bid a long adieu to Nancy.
Night came, and now eight bells had rung,
where careless sailors ever weary,
On the mid-watch, so jovial sung,
with tempers labour cannot weary;
I little to their mirth inclin'd.
while tender thoughts rush’d on my fancy, ​And my warm sighs increas'd the wind,
look'd on the moon, and thought on Nancy.
And now arrived that jovial night,
when every true-bred tar carouses.
When o'er the grog all hands delight,
to toast their sweethearts and their spouses;
Round went the cup, the jest, the glee,
while tender wishes fill'd each fancy,
And when in turn it came to me,
I heav'd a sigh, and toasted Nancy.
Next morn a storm came on at four,
at six the elements in motion
Plung'd me, and three poor sailors more,
headlong into the foaming ocean,
Poor wretches they soon found their graves,
for me it may be only fancy,
But love seem'd to forbid the waves,
to snatch me from the arms of Nancy,
Scarce the foul huricane was clear'd,
scarce winds and waves had ceased to rattle
When a bold enemy appeared,
and dauntless we prepared for battle;
And now, while some lov'd friend or wife,
like lightning rush'd on every fancy,
To Providence I trusted life,
put up a prayer, and thought on Nancy.
​At last, 'twas in the month of May,
the crew, it being lovely weather.
At three A. M. discovered day.
And England's chalky cliffs together.
At seven up channel how we bore,
while hopes and fears rush'd on my fancy,
At twelve, I gaily jump'd on shore,
and to my throbbing heart press'd Nancy.
———o———o———o———
# Love Songs (1825-1826)

Dated from the Scottish Book Trade Index.
LOVE SONGS.
JAMIE GAY.
'TWAS POST MERIDIAN.
HOW SWEETLY SMELLS THE SIMMER GREEN.
and
BY MOONLIGHT ON THE GREEN.
FALKIRK
PRINTED BY R. TAYLOR.
* Jamie Gay
* 'Twas Post Meridian
* How sweetly smells the Simmer Green
* By Moonlight on the Green
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
# Love Songs (1825-1826)/By moonlight on the green

Dated from the Scottish Book Trade Index.
BY MOONLIGHT ON THE GREEN.
By moonlight on the green,
Where lads and lasses stray,
How sweet the blossom'd bean?
How sweet the new made hay?
But not to me so sweet,
The blossoms on the thorn,
As when my lad I meet,
More fresh than May day morn.
chorus.
Give me the lad so blythe and gay
Give me the tartan plaidie;
For, spite of all the wise can say,
I'll wed my highland laddie.
My bonny highland laddie,
My bonny highland laddie,
My bonny, bonny, bonny, bonny,
bonny Highland laddie.
His skin is white as snow,
His e'en are bonny blue,
Like rose-bud sweet his mou
When wet wi' morning dew.
Young Will is rich and great,
And fain wou'd ca' me his;
But what is pride or state, ​Without love's smilling bliss
Give me the lad, &c.
When first he talk'd of love,
He look'd sae blithe and gay,
His flame I did approve,
And cou'd na say him nay.
Then to the kirk I'll haste,
There prove my love and truth;
Reward a love sae chaste,
And wed the constant Youth,
Give me the lad, &c.
FINIS.
# Love Songs (1917)

* related portals: Pulitzers.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Winner of the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1917
LOVE SONGS
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY new york • boston • chicago • dallas atlanta • san francisco
MACMILLAN & CO., Limited london • bombay • calcutta melbourne
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. toronto
LOVE SONGS
BY
SARA TEASDALE
author of "rivers to the sea," "helen of troy and other poems," etc.
New York THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1917 All rights reserved
Copyright, 1907, by Sara Teasdale Copyright, 1911, by Sara Teasdale Copyright, 1915, by The Macmillan Co.
Copyright, 1917, By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published, September, 1917.
Norwood Press J. S. Cushing Co.—Berwick & Smith Co. Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
To E.
I have remembered beauty in the night, Against black silences I waked to see A shower of sunlight over Italy And green Ravello dreaming on her height; I have remembered music in the dark, The clean swift brightness of a fugue of Bach's, And running water singing on the rocks When once in English woods I heard a lark.
But all remembered beauty is no more Than a vague prelude to the thought of you— You are the rarest soul I ever knew, Lover of beauty, knightliest and best; My thoughts seek you as waves that seek the shore, And when I think of you, I am at rest.
PREFATORY NOTE
Beside new poems, this book contains lyrics taken from "Rivers to the Sea" (The Macmillan Company), "Helen of Troy and Other Poems" (G. P. Putnam's Sons), and one or two from an earlier volume. Thanks are due to the editors of Harper's, Century, Scribner's, Poetry and other periodicals for their permission to include poems hitherto unpublished in book form.
For permission to set any of these poems to music, application should be made to the author through the publishers.
CONTENTS
I :
II :
III :
IV :
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 1933, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 90 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
# Love Songs

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Love Songs."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, 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.
* Love Songs, a collection of poems by Sara Teasdale
* Love Songs, an anonymous collection of Scottish folk songs

## See also

* Love Song
# Love Songs (1825-1826)/How sweetly smells the simmer green

Dated from the Scottish Book Trade Index.
How sweetly smells the simmer green.
HOW sweetly smells the simmer green!
Sweet tastes the peach and cherry;
Pai(illegible text)ng and order please our een,
And claret makes us merry.
Bet finer coulers, fruits, and flowers,
And wine, tho' I be thirsty,
Lose a' their charms and weaker powers,
Compar'd with those of Christy.
When wandring o'er the flowery park,
Of natural beauty wanting,
How lightsome is't to hear the lark,
And birds in concert chanting!
But if my Chrysty tunes her voice,
I'm rapt in admiration; ​My thoughts with ecstasies rejoice,
And drap the haill creation.
Whene'er she smiles a kindly glance,
I take the happy omen,
And after mint to make advance,
Hoping she'll prove a woman,
But dubious of my ain desert;
My sentiments I smother;
With secret sighs I vex my heart,
For fear she loves another.
Thus sang blate Edie by a burn,
His Christy did o'er-hear him;
She doughtna let her lover mourn;
But e'er he wist drew near him;
She spake her favour with a look,
Which left nae room to doubt her;
He wisely this white minnte took.
And flang his arms about her.
My Christy!———witness, bonny stream,
Sic joy frae tears arising;
I wish this may na be a dream;
O love the maist surprising!
Time was too precious now for talk;
This point of a' our wishes,
He wadna with set speeches bauk,
But war'd it a' on kisses,
# Love Song (McKay)

First published in the Cambridge Magazine 10 Summer (1920) p.56
Heart of the saffron rose,
Lines of the lily red,
Gold of the buttercup,
Dew of the daisies bed,
Flight of the rising bird
Luring me to the skies,
Smile of an evening star
Playing before mine eyes,
Rime of the silver morn
Fair on the green of trees,
Scent of the coffee blooms
Waking the drowsy bees;
Charming and beautiful,
Rare are these sights to see;
But more than all and more
Is your fond heart to me.
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 1948, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 75 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
# Love Song of King Wenceslas

"Love Song of King Wenceslas" is a song from the German language Codex Manesse from the begininning of 14 century, ascribed to the Bohemian king Wenceslaus II (older literature ascribed it to Wenceslaus I). Its Czech version also appeared in a manuscript, allegedly dating back to the 13 century, which was later proved to be a literary hoax.
English-language translations of Milostná píseň krále Václava include:
* King Wáclaw's song of love in Cheskian Anthology (1832) by John Bowring (translated from the Czech manuscript)
* Love Song of King Vaceslaw I in The Queen's Court Manuscript with Other Ancient Bohemian Poems (1852) by Albert Henry Wratislaw (translated from the Czech manuscript)
# Le Morte d'Arthur/Volume I/Book V

Incipit Liber Quintus.
* Chapter I: How twelve aged ambassadors of Rome came to King Arthur to demand truage for Britain
* Chapter II: How the kings and lords promised to King Arthur aid and help against the Romans
* Chapter III: How King Arthur held a parliament at York, and how he ordained the realm should be governed in his absence
* Chapter IV: How King Arthur being shipped and lying in his cabin had a marvellous dream and of the exposition thereof
* Chapter V: How a man of the country told to him of a marvellous giant, and how he fought and conquered him
* Chapter VI: How King Arthur sent Sir Gawaine and other to Lucius, and how they were assailed and escaped with worship
* Chapter VII: How Lucius sent certain spies in a bushment for to have taken his knights being prisoners, and how they were letted
* Chapter VIII: How a senator told to Lucius of their discomfiture, and also of the great battle between Arthur and Lucius
* Chapter IX: How Arthur, after he had achieved the battle against the Romans, entered into Almaine, and so into Italy
* Chapter X: Of a battle done by Gawaine against a Saracen, which after was yielden and became Christian
* Chapter XI: How the Saracens came out of a wood for to rescue their beasts, and of a great battle
* Chapter XII: How Sir Gawaine returned to King Arthur with his prisoners, and how the King won a city, and how he was crowned Emperor
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/A Poet's Epitaph

A POET's EPITAPH.
Art thou a Statesman, in the van Of public business train'd and bred, —First learn to love one living man; Then may'st thou think upon the dead.
A Lawyer art thou?—draw not nigh; Go, carry to some other place The hardness of thy coward eye, The falshood of thy sallow face.
Art thou a man of purple cheer? A rosy man, right plump to see? Approach; yet Doctor, not too near: This grave no cushion is for thee.
​Art thou a man of gallant pride, A Soldier, and no man of chaff? Welcome!—but lay thy sword aside, And lean upon a Peasant's staff.
Physician art thou? One, all eyes, Philosopher! a fingering slave, One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave?
Wrapp'd closely in thy sensual fleece O turn aside, and take, I pray, That he below may rest in peace, Thy pin-point of a soul away!
—A Moralist perchance appears; Led, Heaven knows how! to this poor sod: And He has neither eyes nor ears; Himself his world, and his own God;
​One to whose smooth-rubb'd soul can cling Nor form nor feeling great nor small, A reasoning, self-sufficing thing, An intellectual All in All!
Shut close the door! press down the latch: Sleep in thy intellectual crust, Nor lose ten tickings of thy watch, Near this unprofitable dust.
But who is He with modest looks, And clad in homely russet brown? He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.
He is retired as noontide dew, Or fountain in a noonday grove; And you must love him, ere to you He will seem worthy of your love.
​The outward shews of sky and earth, Of hill and valley he has view'd; And impulses of deeper birth Have come to him in solitude.
In common things that round us lie Some random truths he can impart The harvest of a quiet eye That broods and sleeps on his own heart.
But he is weak, both man and boy, Hath been an idler in the land; Contented if he might enjoy The things which others understand.
—Come hither in thy hour of strength, Come, weak as is a breaking wave! Here stretch thy body at full length; Or build thy house upon this grave.—
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/A slumber did my spirit seal

A slumber did my spirit seal, I had no human fears: She seem'd a thing that could not feel The touch of earthly years.
No motion has she now, no force She neither hears nor sees Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course With rocks and stones and trees!
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/Ellen Irwin

ELLEN IRWIN,
Or the BRAES of KIRTLE.
Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate Upon the Braes of Kirtle, Was lovely as a Grecian Maid Adorn'd with wreaths of myrtle. Young Adam Bruce beside her lay, And there did they beguile the day With love and gentle speeches, Beneath the budding beeches.
​From many Knights and many Squires The Bruce had been selected, And Gordon, fairest of them all, By Ellen was rejected. Sad tidings to that noble Youth! For it may be proclaim'd with truth, If Bruce hath lov'd sincerely, The Gordon loves as dearly.
But what is Gordon's beauteous face? And what are Gordon's crosses To them who sit by Kirtle's Braes Upon the verdant mosses? Alas that ever he was born! The Gordon, couch'd behind a thorn, Sees them and their caressing, Beholds them bless'd and blessing.
​Proud Gordon cannot bear the thoughts That through his brain are travelling, And, starting up, to Bruce's heart He launch'd a deadly jav'lin! Fair Ellen saw it when it came, And, stepping forth to meet the same, Did with her body cover The Youth her chosen lover.
And, falling into Bruce's arms, Thus died the beauteous Ellen, Thus from the heart of her true-love The mortal spear repelling. And Bruce, as soon as he had slain The Gordon, sail'd away to Spain, And fought with rage incessant Against the Moorish Crescent.
​But many days and many months, And many years ensuing, This wretched Knight did vainly seek The death that he was wooing: So coming back across the wave, Without a groan on Ellen's grave His body he extended, And there his sorrow ended.
Now ye who willingly have heard The tale I have been telling, May in Kirkonnel church-yard view The grave of lovely Ellen: By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid, And, for the stone upon his head, May no rude hand deface it, And its forlorn Hic jacet.
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/A whirl-blast from behind the Hill

A whirl-blast from behind the hill Rush'd o'er the wood with startling sound: Then all at once the air was still, And showers of hail-stones patter'd round. Where leafless Oaks tower'd high above, I sate within an undergrove Of tallest hollies, tall and green, A fairer bower was never seen. From year to year the spacious floor With wither'd leaves is cover'd o'er, You could not lay a hair between: And all the year the bower is green. But see! where'er the hailstones drop The wither'd leaves all skip and hop, There's not a breeze—no breath of air— Yet here, and there, and every where ​Along the floor, beneath the shade By those embowering hollies made, The leaves in myriads jump and spring, As if with pipes and music rare Some Robin Good-fellow were there, And all those leaves, that jump and spring, Were each a joyous, living thing.
Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease That I may never cease to find, Even in appearances like these Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/Andrew Jones

ANDREW JONES.
I hate that Andrew Jones: he'll breed His children up to waste and pillage. I wish the press-gang or the drum With its tantara sound would come, And sweep him from the village!
I said not this, because he loves Through the long day to swear and tipple; But for the poor dear sake of one To whom a foul deed he had done, A friendless Man, a travelling Cripple!
​For this poor crawling helpless wretch Some Horseman who was passing by, A penny on the ground had thrown; But the poor Cripple was alone And could not stoop—no help was nigh.
Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground For it had long been droughty weather: So with his staff the Cripple wrought Among the dust till he had brought The halfpennies together.
It chanc'd that Andrew pass'd that way Just at the time; and there he found The Cripple in the mid-day heat Standing alone, and at his feet He saw the penny on the ground.
​He stopp'd and took the penny up: And when the Cripple nearer drew, Quoth Andrew, "Under half-a-crown, What a man finds is all his own, And so, my Friend, good day to you."
And hence I said, that Andrew's boys Will all be train'd to waste and pillage; And wish'd the press-gang, or the drum With its tantara sound, would come And sweep him from the village!
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/A Fragment

A FRAGMENT.
Between two sister moorland rills There is a spot that seems to lie Sacred to flowrets of the hills, And sacred to the sky. And in this smooth and open dell There is a tempest-stricken tree; A corner-stone by lightning cut, The last stone of a cottage hut; And in this dell you see A thing no storm can e'er destroy, The shadow of a Danish Boy.
In clouds above, the lark is heard, He sings his blithest and his best; ​But in this lonesome nook the bird Did never build his nest. No beast, no bird hath here his home; The bees borne on the breezy air Pass high above those fragrant bells To other flowers, to other dells, Nor ever linger there. The Danish Boy walks here alone: The lovely dell is all his own.
A spirit of noon day is he, He seems a Form of flesh and blood; A piping Shepherd he might be, A Herd-boy of the wood. A regal vest of fur he wears, In colour like a raven's wing; It fears nor rain, nor wind, nor dew, But in the storm 'tis fresh and blue As budding pines in Spring; ​His helmet has a vernal grace, Fresh as the bloom upon his face.
A harp is from his shoulder slung; He rests the harp upon his knee, And there in a forgotten tongue He warbles melody. Of flocks and herds both far and near He is the darling and the joy, And often, when no cause appears, The mountain ponies prick their ears, They hear the Danish Boy, While in the dell he sits alone Beside the tree and corner-stone.
When near this blasted tree you pass, Two sods are plainly to be seen Close at its root, and each with grass Is cover'd fresh and green. ​Like turf upon a new-made grave These two green sods together lie, Nor heat, nor cold, nor rain, nor wind Can these two sods together bind, Nor sun, nor earth, nor sky, But side by side the two are laid, As if just sever'd by the spade.
There sits he: in his face you spy No trace of a ferocious air, Nor ever was a cloudless sky So steady or so fair. The lovely Danish Boy is blest And happy in his flowery cove; From bloody deeds his thoughts are far; And yet he warbles songs of war; They seem like songs of love, For calm and gentle is his mien; Like a dead Boy he is serene.