OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1835/The Festa of Madonna Dei Fiori

* FESTA OF MADONNA DEI FIORI
* Painted by T. Uwins A. R. A.Engraved by S. Sangster
THE FESTA OF MADONNA DEI FIORI.
BY L. E. L.
They gathered in that holy place,  A young and lovely band, With banners wrought with sacred signs,  And flowers in each hand.
It was a summer festival  Worthy a summer sky, That brought the fragrant and the fair  Upon that shrine to die.
Many a little foot had been  Amid the early dew, While fresh the odour to each leaf,  Fresh colour to each hue.
And many a little brow had watched  For weeks some favourite flower, Proud and impatient of its growth  For this auspicious hour.
And many a little heart had linked  Its deepest, dearest prayer, And the fulfilment of its hope  With the sweet offerings there.
One bore a banner, where was wrought  The Virgin and her Son— Her younger sister and herself  The broidery begun.
But she who held the banner now  Went on her way alone; No sister shared the sacred task:—  Her sister's task was done!
As yet the grass was scarcely grown  Upon that bright young head; As yet the tears were warm that fell  Above the early dead.
Poor child! how pale and sorrowful  She takes her silent way! A prayer for the departed one  Is on her lips to-day.
But foremost come two fairy ones  With dark eyes filled with light, The very roses that they bear  Can scarcely be more bright.
The youngest bears a single plant,  One that herself has nursed;
A far exotic from the South,  The fairest and the first.
And they have tender hopes and fears  To claim the votive vow; And parents, for whose precious sake  Their prayers are ready now.
Blest be their lovely pilgrimage,  Although they seek a shrine Hallowed by a believing faith  Not unto us divine!
No banners in our humbler church  Are waved, no flowers are strown; The sacrifice we offer up  Must in the heart be shown.
And that is much if truly given:  Our vanity and pride, Our empty hopes, our fair deceits,  Must there be all denied.
Those children, with an earnest faith,  Are offering early flowers; Methinks their simple truth and love  Might teach and strengthen ours.
# Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1836

Poems of Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) in The Amulet, 1836
compiled by Peter J. Bolton
Contents
* The Hermit's Grave
* May Morning
* The Mother's Warning
* The Evening Star
* Le Chapeau Noir
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
# Poems (Storrie)/Song for the Departure of the Troops

1901.
# Poems (Storrie)/Sydney Harbour (Who has not seen thee lacks so fair a thing)

SONNETS
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Feelings of the Tyrolese

IX.
FEELINGS OF THE TYROLESE.
The Land we from our Fathers had in trust, And to our Children will transmit, or die: This is our maxim, this our piety; And God and Nature say that it is just. That which we would perform in arms—we must! We read the dictate in the Infant's eye; In the Wife's smile; and in the placid sky; And, at our feet, amid the silent dust Of them that were before us.—Sing aloud Old Songs, the precious music of the heart! Give, Herds and Flocks! your voices to the wind! While we go forth, a self-devoted crowd, With weapons in the fearless hand, to assert Our virtue, and to vindicate mankind.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Expostulation and Reply

V.
EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY.
"Why, William, on that old gray stone, "Thus for the length of half a day, "Why, William, sit you thus alone, "And dream your time away?
"Where are your books?—that light bequeathed "To beings else forlorn and blind! "Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed "From dead men to their kind.
"You look round on your mother earth, "As if she for no purpose bore you; "As if you were her first-born birth, "And none had lived before you!"
​One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake, When life was sweet, I knew not why, To me my good friend Matthew spake, And thus I made reply:
"The eye—it cannot choose but see; "We cannot bid the ear be still; "Our bodies feel, where'er they be, "Against, or with our will.
"Nor less I deem that there are Powers "Which of themselves our minds impress; "That we can feed this mind of ours "In a wise passiveness,
"Think you, mid all this mighty sum "Of things for ever speaking, "That nothing of itself will come, "But we must still be seeking?
"—Then ask not wherefore, here, alone, "Conversing as I may, "I sit upon this old gray stone, "And dream my time away."
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Fidelity

XXIV.
FIDELITY.
A barking sound the Shepherd hears, A cry as of a Dog or Fox; He halts, and searches with his eyes Among the scattered rocks: And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern; And instantly a Dog is seen, Glancing from that covert green.
The Dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions, too, are wild and shy; With something, as the Shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry: ​Nor is there any one in sight All round, in Hollow or on Height; Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear; What is the Creature doing here?
It was a Cove, a huge Recess, That keeps till June December's snow A lofty Precipice in front, A silent Tarn below! Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public Road or Dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land; From trace of human foot or hand.
There, sometimes does a leaping Fish Send through the Tarn a lonely cheer; The Crags repeat the Raven's croak, In symphony austere; Thither the Rainbow comes—the Cloud— And Mists that spread the flying shroud; And Sun-beams; and the sounding blast, That, if it could, would hurry past, But that enormous Barrier binds it fast.
​Not free from boding thoughts, awhile The Shepherd stood: then makes his way Towards the Dog, o'er rocks and stones, As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground; The appalled Discoverer with a sigh Looks round, to learn the history.
From those abrupt and perilous rocks The Man had fallen, that place of fear! At length upon the Shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the Name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered, too, the very day On which the Traveller passed this way.
But hear a wonder, for whose sake This lamentable Tale I tell! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The Dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This Dog had been through three months' space A Dweller in that savage place.
​Yes, proof was plain that since the day On which the Traveller thus had died The Dog had watched about the spot, Or by his Master's side: How nourished here through such long time He knows, who gave that love sublime, And gave that strength of feeling, great Above all human estimate.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/French Revolution

XXXI.
FRENCH REVOLUTION,
AS IT APPEARED TO ENTHUSIASTS AT ITS COMMENCEMENT.
Reprinted from "The Friend."
Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy! For mighty were the Auxiliars, which then stood Upon our side, we who were strong in love! Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive, But to be young was very heaven!—Oh! times, In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways Of custom, law, and statute, took at once The attraction of a country in Romance! When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights, When most intent on making of herself ​A prime Enchantress—to assist the work, Which then was going forward in her name! Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth The beauty wore of promise—that which sets (To take an image which was felt no doubt Among the bowers of paradise itself) The budding rose above the rose full blown. What Temper at the prospect did not wake To happiness unthought of? The inert Were roused, and lively Natures rapt away! They who had fed their childhood upon dreams, The play-fellows of fancy, who had made All powers of swiftness, subtilty and strength Their ministers,—who in lordly wise had stirred Among the grandest objects of the sense, And dealt with whatsoever they found there As if they had within some lurking right To wield it;—they, too, who of gentle mood Had watched all gentle motions, and to these Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more mild, And in the region of their peaceful selves;— Now was it that both found, the Meek and Lofty, Did both find helpers to their heart's desire; And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish! ​Were called upon to exercise their skill, Not in Utopia, subterraneous Fields, Or some secreted Island, heaven knows where! But in the very world, which is the world Of all of us,—the place where in the end We find our happiness, or not at all!
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Even as a dragon's eye

IX.
Even as a dragon's eye that feels the stress Of a bedimming sleep, or as a lamp Sullenly glaring through sepulchral damp, So burns yon Taper mid its black recess Of mountains, silent, dreary, motionless: The Lake below reflects it not; the sky Muffled in clouds affords no company To mitigate and cheer its loneliness. Yet round the body of that joyless Thing, Which sends so far its melancholy light, Perhaps are seated in domestic ring A gay society with faces bright, Conversing, reading, laughing;—or they sing, While hearts and voices in the song unite.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Feelings of a Noble Biscayan

XXIII.
FEELINGS OF A NOBLE BISCAYAN
AT ONE OF THESE FUNERALS.
1810.
Yet, yet Biscayans, we must meet our Foes With firmer soul,—yet labour to regain Our ancient freedom; else 'twere worse than vain To gather round the Bier these festal shows! A garland fashioned of the pure white rose Becomes not one whose Father is a Slave: Oh! bear the Infant covered to his Grave! These venerable mountains now enclose A People sunk in apathy and fear. If this endure, farewell, for us, all good! The awful light of heavenly Innocence Will fail to illuminate the Infant's bier; And guilt and shame, from which is no defence, Descend on all that issues from our blood.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/For a Seat in the groves of Coleorton

VI.
Inscription for a Seat in the Groves of Coleorton.
Beneath yon eastern Ridge, the craggy Bound, Rugged and high, of Charnwood's forest ground, Stand yet, but, Stranger! hidden from thy view, The ivied Ruins of forlorn Grace Dieu; Erst a religious House, that day and night With hymns resounded, and the chaunted rite: And when those rites had ceased, the Spot gave birth To honourable Men of various worth: There, on the margin of a Streamlet wild, Did Francis Beaumont sport, an eager Child; There, under shadow of the neighbouring rocks, Sang youthful tales of shepherds and their flocks; Unconscious prelude to heroic themes, Heart-breaking tears, and melancholy dreams Of slighted love, and scorn, and jealous rage, With which his genius shook the buskined Stage. Communities are lost, and Empires die,— And things of holy use unhallowed lie; They perish;—but the Intellect can raise, From airy words alone, a Pile that ne'er decays.
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)/Summer by the Lakeside

SUMMER BY THE LAKESIDE.
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)/The Last Walk in Autumn

THE LAST WALK IN AUTUMN.
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)/The Palatine

THE PALATINE.
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)/The Three Bells

THE THREE BELLS.
# Poems of Optimism/A Dialogue

HE
Let us be friends. My life is sad and lonely, While yours with love is beautiful and bright. Be kind to me: I ask your friendship only. No Star is robbed by lending darkness light.
SHE
I give you friendship as I understand it, A sentiment I feel for all mankind.
HE
Oh, give me more; may not one friend command it?
SHE
Look in the skies, ’tis there the star you’ll find; It casts its beams on all with equal favour.
HE
I would have more than what all men may claim.
SHE
Then your ideas of friendship strongly savour Of sentiments which wear another name.
HE
May not one friend receive more than another?
SHE
Not man from woman and still remain a friend. Life holds but three for her, a father, brother, Lover - against the rest she must contend.
HE
Against the universe I would protect you, With my life even, nor hold the price too dear.
SHE
But not against yourself, should fate select you As Lancelot for foolish Guinevere.
HE
You would not tempt me?
SHE
That is undisputed. We put the question back upon the shelf. My point remains unanswered, unrefuted No man protects a woman from himself.
HE
I am immune: for once I loved with passion, And all the fires within me burned to dust. I think of woman but in friendly fashion: In me she finds a comrade safe to trust.
SHE
So said Mount Peelée to the listening ocean: Behold what followed! Let the good be wise. Though human hearts proclaim extinct emotion, Beware how high the tides of friendship rise.
# Poems of Optimism

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.

### Poems of Optimism
#### War

* Greater Britain
* Belgium
* Knitting
* Mobilisation
* Neutral
* A book for the King
* The men-made gods
* The Ghosts
* The poet's theme
* Europe
* After
* The Peace Angel
* Peace should not come

#### Miscellaneous

* The Winds of Fate
* Beauty
* The invisible helpers
* To the women of Australia
* Replies
* Earth bound
* A Successful Man
* Unsatisfied
* Separation
* To the teachers of the young
* Beauty making
* On Avon's breast I saw a stately swan
* The little go-cart
* I am running forth to meet you
* Martyrs of peace
* Home
* The eternal now
* If I were a man, a young man
* We must send them out to play
* Protest
* Reward
* This is my task
* The statue
* Behold the earth
* What they saw
* His last letter
* A Dialogue
* A Wish
* Justice
* An Old Song
* Oh, poor, sick world
* Praise day
* Interlude
* The land of the gone-away-souls
* The harp’s song
* The pendulum
* An old-fashioned type
* The sword
* Love and the seasons
* A Naughty Little Comet
* The last dance
* A Vagabond Mind
* My flower room
* My faith
* Arrow and bow
* If we should meet him
* Faith
* The secret of prayer
* The Answer
* A Vision
* The second coming
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
# Poems of Nature (Whittier)/The Lakeside

THE LAKE-SIDE.
# Poems of Optimism/A Naughty Little Comet

There was once a little comet who lived near the Milky Way! She loved to wander out at night and jump about and play. The mother of the comet was a very good old star - She used to scold her reckless child for venturing out too far; She told her of the ogre, Sun, who loved on stars to sup, And who asked no better pastimes than gobbling comets up.
But instead of growing cautious and of showing proper fear, The foolish little comet edged up near, and near, and near. She switched her saucy tail along right where the Sun could see, And flirted with old Mars and was bold as bold could be. She laughed to scorn the quiet stars, who never frisked about; She said there was no fun in life unless you ventured out.
She liked to make the planets stare, and wished no better mirth Than just to see the telescopes aimed at her from the Earth. She wondered how so many stars could mope through nights and days, And let the sickly faced old moon get all the love and praise. And as she talked and tossed her head and switched her shining trail, The staid old mother star grew sad, her cheek grew wan and pale.
For she had lived there in the skies a million years or more, And she had heard gay comets talk in just this way before. And by and by there came an end to this gay comet’s fun - She went a tiny bit too far - and vanished in the Sun! No more she swings her shining trail before the whole world’s sight, But quiet stars she laughed to scorn are twinkling every night.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/Daughters of War

DAUGHTERS OF WAR
Space beats the ruddy freedom of their limbs, Their naked dances with man's spirit naked By the root side of the tree of life (The under side of things And shut from earth's profoundest eyes).
I saw in prophetic gleams These mighty daughters in their dances Beckon each soul aghast from its crimson corpse To mix in their glittering dances: I heard the mighty daughters’ giant sighs In sleepless passion for the sons of valour And envy of the days fo flesh, Barring their love with mortal boughs across— The mortal boughs, the mortal tree of life. The old bark burnt with iron wars They blow to a live flame To char the young green days And reach the occult soul; they have no softer lure, No softer lure than the savage ways of death.
We were satisfied of our lords the moon and the sun To take our wage of sleep and bread and warmth— These maidens came—these strong everliving Amazons, And in an easy might their wrists Of night's sway and noon's sway the sceptres brake, Clouding the wild, the soft lustres of our eyes.
Clouding the wild lustres, the clinging tender lights; Driving the darkness into the flame of day With the Amazonian wind of them Over our corroding faces That must be broken—broken for evermore, So the soul can leap out Into their huge embraces. Though there are human faces Best sculptures of Deity, And sinews lusted after By the Archangels tall, Even these must leap to the love-heat of these maidens From the flame of terrene days, Leaving grey ashes to the wind—to the wind.
One (whose great lifted face,
Where wisdom's strength and beauty's strength
And the thewed strength of large beasts Moved and merged, gloomed and lit) Was speaking, surely, as the earth-men's earth fell away; Whose new hearing drank the sound Where pictures, lutes, and mountains mixed With the loosed spirit of a thought, Essenced to language thus—
"My sisters force their males From the doomed earth, from the doomed glee And hankering of hearts. Frail hands gleam up through the human quagmire, and lips of ash Seem to wail, as in sad faded paintings Far-sunken and strange. My sisters have their males Clean of the dust of old days That clings about those white hands And yearns in those voices sad: But these shall not see them, Or think of them in any days or years; They are my sisters’ lovers in other days and years."
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/A Girl's Thoughts

A GIRL'S THOUGHTS
Dim apprehension of a trust Comes over me this quiet hour, As though the silence were a flower, And this, its perfume, dark like dust.
My individual self would cling Through fear, through pride, unto its fears: It strives to shut out what it hears, The founts of being murmuring.
O! Need, whose hauntings terrorize; Whether my maiden ways would hide, Or lose and to that need subside, Life shrinks and instinct dreads surprise.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/Creation

CREATION
As the pregnant womb of night Thrills with imprisoned light, Misty, nebulous-born, Growing deeper into her morn, So man, with no sudden stride, Bloomed into pride.
In the womb of the All-spirit The universe lay; the will Blind, an atom, lay still. The pulse of matter Obeyed in awe And strove to flatter The rhythmic law. But the will grew; nature feared, And cast off the child she reared, Now her rival, instinct-led, With her own powers impregnated.
Brain and heart, blood-fervid flower: Creation is each act of yours.
Your roots are God, the pauseless cause, But your boughs sway to self-windy laws. Perception is no dreamy birth And magnifies transfigured earth. With each new light, our eyes receive A larger power to perceive.
If we could unveil our eyes, Become as wise as the All-wise, No love would be, no mystery: Love and joy dwell in infinity. Love begets love; reaching highest We find a higher still, unseen From where we stood to reach the first; Moses must die to live in Christ, The seed be buried to live to green. Perfection must begin from worst. Christ perceives a larger reachless love, More full, and grows to reach thereof. The green plant yearns for its yellow fruit. Perfection always is a root, And joy a motion that doth feed Itself on light of its own speed, And round its radiant circle runs, Creating and devouring suns.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/A Careless Heart

A CARELESS HEART
A little breath can make a prayer, A little wind can take it And turn it back again to air: Then say, why should you make it?
An ardent thought can make a word, A little ear can hear it, A careless heart forget it heard: Then why keep ever near it?
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/A Mood

A MOOD
You are so light and gay, So slight, sweet maid— Your limbs like leaves in play, Or beams that grasses braid; O! Joys whose jewels pray My breast to be inlaid.
Frail fairy of the streets; Strong, dainty lure; For all men's eyes the sweets Whose lack makes hearts so poor; While your heart loveless beats. Light, laughing, and impure.
O! Fragrant waft of flesh, Float through me so— My limbs are in your mesh, My blood forgets to flow; Ah! Lilied meadows fresh, It knows where it would go.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/A Question

A QUESTION
What if you shut your eyes and look, Yea, look with all the spirit's eyes, While mystic unrevealed skies Unfold like pages of a book
Wherein new scenes of wonder rare Are imaged, till the sense deceives Itself, and what it sees believes— Even what the soul has pictured there?
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/At Night

AT NIGHT
Crazed shadows, from no golden body That I can see, embrace me warm; All is purple and closed Round by night's arm.
A brilliance wings from dark-lit voices, Wild lost voices of shadows white: See the long houses lean To the weird flight.
Star-amorous things that wake at sleep-time (Because the sun spreads wide like a tree With no good fruit for them) Thrill secrecy.
Pale horses ride before the morning, The secret roots of the sun to tread, With hoofs shod with venom And ageless dread;
To breathe on burning emerald grasses And opalescent dews of the day, And poison at the core What smiles may stray.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/Beauty

BEAUTY
As a sword in the sun— A glory calling a glory— Our eyes, seeing it run, Capture its gleam for our story.
Singer, marvellous gleam Dancing in splendid light, Here you have brought us our dream— Ah, but its stay is its flight!
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/Break of Day in the Trenches

BREAK OF DAY IN THE TRENCHES
The darkness crumbles away—
It is the same old druid Time as ever.
Only a live thing leaps my hand—
A queer sardonic rat—
As I pull the parapet's poppy
To stick behind my ear.
Droll rat, they would shoot you if they knew
Your cosmopolitan sympathies
(And God knows what antipathies).
Now you have touched this English hand
You will do the same to a German—
Soon, no doubt, if it be your pleasure
To cross the sleeping green between.
It seems you inwardly grin as you pass
Strong eyes, fine limbs, haughty athletes
Less chanced than you for life,
Bonds to the whims of murder,
Sprawled in the bowels of the earth,
The torn fields of France.
What do you see in our eyes
At the shrieking iron and flame
Hurled through still heavens?
What quaver—what heart aghast?
Poppies whose roots are in man's veins
Drop, and are ever dropping;
But mine in my ear is safe,
Just a little white with the dust.
# Poems by Isaac Rosenberg/Chagrin

CHAGRIN
Caught still as Absalom, Surely the air hangs From the swayless cloud-boughs Like hair of Absalom Caught and hanging still.
From the imagined weight Of spaces in a sky Of mute chagrin my thoughts Hang like branch-clung hair To trunks of silence swung, With the choked soul weighing down Into thick emptiness. Christ, end this hanging death, For endlessness hangs therefrom!
Invisibly branches break From invisible trees: The cloud-woods where we rush (Our eyes holding so much),
Which we must ride dim ages round Ere the hands (we dream) can touch, We ride, we ride—before the morning The secret roots of the sun to tread— And suddenly We are lifted of all we know, And hang from implacable boughs.