OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 1/The Waterfall and the Eglantine

VII.
THE
WATERFALL
AND
THE EGLANTINE.
"Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf," Exclaimed a thundering Voice, "Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self Between me and my choice!" A falling Water swoln with snows Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose, That, all bespattered with his foam, And dancing high, and dancing low, Was living, as a child might know, In an unhappy home.
​"Dost thou presume my course to block? Off, off! or, puny Thing! I'll hurl thee headlong with the rock To which thy fibres cling." The Flood was tyrannous and strong; The patient Briar suffered long, Nor did he utter groan or sigh, Hoping the danger would be past: But seeing no relief, at last He ventured to reply.
"Ah!" said the Briar, "blame me not; Why should we dwell in strife? We who in this, our natal spot, Once lived a happy life! You stirred me on my rocky bed— What pleasure through my veins you spread! The Summer long from day to day My leaves you freshened and bedewed; Nor was it common gratitude That did your cares repay.
​"When Spring came on with bud and bell, Among these rocks did I Before you hang my wreaths, to tell That gentle days were nigh! And in the sultry summer hours I sheltered you with leaves and flowers; And in my leaves—now shed and gone, The Linnet lodged, and for us two Chaunted his pretty songs, when You Had little voice or none.
"But now proud thoughts are in your breast— What grief is mine you see. Ah! would you think, even yet how blest Together we might be! Though of both leaf and flower bereft, Some ornaments to me are left— Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, With which I in my humble way Would deck you many a winter's day, A happy Eglantine!"
​What more he said I cannot tell. The Torrent thundered down the dell With unabating haste; I listened, nor aught else could hear; The Briar quaked—and much I fear Those accents were his last.
# Poems (Van Vorst)

POEMS
POEMS BY MARIE VAN VORST
DODD. MEAD & COM- PANY
Copyright, 1903,
By Dodd, Mead and Company
First Edition published March, 1903
university press · john wilson and son · cambridge, u. s. a.
I inscribe my first book of verse to the memory of my brother
JOHN VAN VORST
​Thanks are tendered to Scribner's Magazine and the Pall Mall Magazine for the courteous permission to reprint verses already published in these periodicals.
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
# Poor Mailie's Elegy

* "Poor Mailie's Elegy", in The Beauties of Burn's Poems (1819), a chapbook printed in Falkirk
* "Poor Mailie's Elegy", in The Poetical Works of Robert Burns (1887), edited by Alexander Smith
# Poor Papa

* related portals: Oswald the Lucky Rabbit, Silent cartoons.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, Wikidata item.
Cast and Crew :
| Crew ||
| Distributor | Universal Pictures |
| Director | Walt Disney (d. 1966) |
| Producer | Charles Mintz (d. 1939) |
| Based on available information, the latest crew member that is relevant to international copyright laws died in 1966, meaning that this film may be in the public domain in countries and jurisdictions with 57 years p.m.a. or less, as well as in the United States. ||
UNIVERSAL presents OSWALD THE LUCKY RABBIT in
"Poor Papa"
A Winkler Production by Walt Disney
Stop
Saturday night—
Police Gazette
Soap
No vacancies
Water tank
AN OSWALD COMEDY
THE END
DISTRIBUTED BY UNIVERSAL
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
Copyright law abroad tends to consider the following people authors of a film:
* The principal director
* The screenwriter, and/or other writers of dialogue
* The composer/lyricist (if the film is accompanied by sound)
* The cinematographer
* By extension, the authors of any works that may serve as the basis for a film's plot
The longest-living of these authors died in 1966, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 57 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
# Poor Prune

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
Song from the musical Leave It to Jane.
[Verse]
    Mamah often used to tell me how I'm prudent
    It is for girls to let their fancies roam.
    And go out walking evenings with a student,
    Instead of washing dishes safe at home.
    But I never thought my Percy would deceive me:
    He seemed as good and faithful as a lamb.
    And now doggone it! If he doesn't leave me,
    The double faced horn-swoggling little clam:
[Burthen]
    I will always love you dearie!
    Morning, night and afternoon;
    And my heart will be so weary
    if we don't get married soon!
    Oh I fell for all that old time junk,
    Them nights beneath the moon,
    Poor prune!
[Verse]
    Now I can't enjoy my meals, my heart is broken:
    I don't know when I've felt so awful wild.
    Ah, since those crool remarks of his was spoken,
    I've turned into a woman from a child.
    It gets my goat for fair when I remember
    Them walks we used to take at close of day.
    And how it used to fan Love's burning ember,
    When he to me these tender woids would say:
[Burthen]
    I will always love you dearie!
    With a love that nought can kill;
    And my heart will ne'er grow so weary
    nor my passion get a chill!
    Yes I fell for all the hot air stuff,
    That Percy used to spill,
    Poor pill!
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 1975, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 48 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
# Poor Old Robinson Crusoe!

English nursery rhyme (Roud 20615), referencing the 1719 novel Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe
* "Poor old Robinson Crusoe!" in A Book of Nursery Rhymes by Charles Welsh (1901)
* "Poor Old Robinson Crusoe!" in The Nursery Rhymes of Mother Goose by Arthur Rackham (St. Nicholas, Sept. 1913)
* "Poor Old Robinson Crusoe!" in The Real Mother Goose by Blanche Fisher Wright (1916)

### See also

* "Oh! poor Robinson Crusoe", possibly a variant version of the same poem
# Poor Law Magazine

Poor Law Magazine is a periodical, published from 1858 onwards.
Certain parts of this work are in the public domain in the United States because they were published before 1929.
* Volume 1 (1859) External scan
* Volume 4 (1862) External scan
* Volume 5 (1863) External scan
* Volume 7 (1865) External scan
* Volume 8 (1866) External scan
New Series (1868-1872)
* Volume 1 (New Series); Volume 10 (Old Series) (1868) External scan
* Volume 4 (1871) External scan
* Volume 5 (1872) External scan
Third Series (1873-1894)
* Volume 1 (1873) External scan
* Volume 5 (1877) External scan
# Poor Mary

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Poor Mary."
* 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.
* "Poor Mary" (or "Poor Jenny", "Poor Sally", etc.), an English nursery rhyme and singing game
* "Poor Mary", a poem by Angus Fletcher
# Poor Mary (Fletcher)

* "Poor Mary", in The Highland Plaid (1818), a chapbook printed in Edinburgh
* "Poor Mary", in The Book of Scottish Song (1843), edited by Alexander Whitelaw
# Poor Richard

* "Poor Richard" in The Atlantic Monthly 19–20.
** "Poor Richard" in The Atlantic Monthly 19 (116) (June 1867): 694–706. (transcription project)
** "Poor Richard" in The Atlantic Monthly 20 (117) (July 1867): 32–42. (transcription project)
** "Poor Richard" in The Atlantic Monthly 20 (118) (August 1867): 167–178. (transcription project)
    — First publication in any form; the original "magazine text"
* "Poor Richard" in Stories Revived (3 volumes, London: Macmillan & Co., 1885) 3: 1–90. (transcription project)
    — First English book edition; the original "first book text"
* "Poor Richard" in Stories Revived (2 volumes, London: Macmillan & Co., 1885) 2: 133–222.
    — Reprint of first English book edition; uses the "first book text"
* "Poor Richard" in A Landscape Painter (New York: Scott and Seltzer, 1919): 69–174.
    — First American book edition; published posthumously; uses the "magazine text"
* "Poor Richard" in The Diary of a Man of Fifty, A New England Winter, The Path of Duty, and Other Tales (London: Macmillan & Co., 192?): 417–496.
    — Volume 25 of The Novels and Stories of Henry James, the first posthumous collection of James' works; uses the "first book text".
# Poems of Cheer/Possession

That which we had we still possess,  Though leaves may drop and stars may fall; No circumstance can make it less,  Or take it from us, all in all.
That which is lost we did not own;  We only held it for a day - A leaf by careless breezes blown;  No fate could take our own away.
I hold it as a changeless law  From which no soul can sway or swerve, We have that in us which will draw  Whate'er we need or most deserve.
Even as the magnet to the steel  Our souls are to our best desires; The Fates have hearts and they can feel -  They know what each true life requires.
We think we lose when we most gain;  We call joys ended ere begun; When stars fade out do skies complain,  Or glory in the rising sun?
No fate could rob us of our own -  No circumstance can make it less; What time removes was but a loan,  For what was ours we still possess.
# Poems of Cheer/Retrospection

I look down the lengthening distance  Far back to youth's valley of hope. How strange seemed the ways of existence,  How infinite life and its scope!
What dreams, what ambitions came thronging  To people a world of my own! How the heart in my bosom was longing,  For pleasures and places unknown.
But the hill-tops of pleasure and beauty  Were covered with mist at the dawn; And only the rugged road Duty  Shone clear, as my feet wandered on.
I loved not the path and its leading,  I hated the rocks and the dust; But a Voice from the Silence was pleading,  It spoke but one syllable--"Trust."
I saw, as the morning grew older,  The fair flowered hills of delight; And the feet of my comrades grew bolder,  They hurried away from my sight.
And when on the pathway I faltered,  And when I rebelled at my fate, The Voice with assurance unaltered,  Again spoke one syllable--"Wait."
Along the hard highway I travelled  And saw, with dim vision, how soon The morning's gold locks were unravelled,  By fingers of amorous noon.
A turn in the pathway of duty -  I stood in the perfect day's prime, Close, close to the hillside of beauty  The Voice from the Silence said "Climb"
The road to the beautiful Regions  Lies ever through Duty's hard way. Oh ye who go searching in legions,  Know this and be patient to-day.
# Poems of Cheer/Poems of the Week

SUNDAY
Lie still and rest, in that serene repose That on this holy morning comes to those Who have been burdened with the cares which make The sad heart weary and the tired head ache.  Lie still and rest -  God's day of all is best.
MONDAY
Awake! arise! Cast off thy drowsy dreams! Red in the East, behold the Morning gleams. "As Monday goes, so goes the week," dames say. Refreshed, renewed, use well the initial day.  And see! thy neighbour  Already seeks his labour.
TUESDAY
Another morning's banners are unfurled - Another day looks smiling on the world. It holds new laurels for thy soul to win; Mar not its grace by slothfulness or sin,  Nor sad, away,  Send it to yesterday.
WEDNESDAY
Half-way unto the end--the week's high noon. The morning hours do speed away so soon! And, when the noon is reached, however bright, Instinctively we look toward the night.  The glow is lost  Once the meridian cross'd.
THURSDAY
So well the week has sped, hast thou a friend, Go spend an hour in converse. It will lend New beauty to thy labours and thy life To pause a little sometimes in the strife.  Toil soon seems rude  That has no interlude.
FRIDAY
From feasts abstain; be temperate, and pray; Fast if thou wilt; and yet, throughout the day, Neglect no labour and no duty shirk: Not many hours are left thee for thy work -  And it were meet  That all should be complete.
SATURDAY
Now with the almost finished task make haste. So near the night thou hast no time to waste. Post up accounts, and let thy Soul's eyes look For flaws and errors in Life's ledger-book.  When labours cease,  How sweet the sense of peace!
# Poems of Cheer/River and Sea

We stood by the river that swept  In its glory and grandeur away; But never a pulse o' me leapt,  And you wondered at me that day.
We stood by the lake as it lay  With its dimpled face turned to the light; Was it strange I had nothing to say  To so fair and enchanting a sight?
I look on your tresses of gold -  You are fair and a thing to be loved - Do you think I am heartless and cold  That I look and am wholly unmoved?
One answer, dear friend, I will make  To the questions your eyes ask of me: "Talk not of the river or lake  To those who have looked on the sea"
# Poems of Cheer/Prayer

I do not undertake to say  That literal answers come from Heaven, But I know this--that when I pray  A comfort, a support is given That helps me rise o'er earthly things As larks soar up on airy wings.
In vain the wise philosopher  Points out to me my fabric's flaws, In vain the scientists aver  That "all things are controlled by laws." My life has taught me day by day That it availeth much to pray.
I do not stop to reason out  The why and how. I do not care, Since I know this, that when I doubt,  Life seems a blackness of despair, The world a tomb; and when I trust, Sweet blossoms spring up in the dust.
Since I know in the darkest hour,  If I lift up my soul in prayer, Some sympathetic, loving Power  Sends hope and comfort to me there. Since balm is sent to ease my pain, What need to argue or explain?
Prayer has a sweet, refining grace,  It educates the soul and heart. It lends a lustre to the face,  And by its elevating art It gives the mind an inner sight That brings it near the Infinite.
From our gross selves it helps us rise  To something which we yet may be. And so I ask not to be wise,  If thus my faith is lost to me. Faith, that with angel's voice and touch Says, "Pray, for prayer availeth much."
# Poems (Larcom)/Hilary

SEASIDE AND HILLSIDE.
# Poems (Larcom)/Hand in Hand with Angels

MISCELLANEOUS.
# Poems (Larcom)/Heaven's Need

THE COMING LIFE.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Beän-vield

THE BEAN VIELD.
’Twer where the zun did warm the lewth, An’ win’ did whiver in the sheäde, The sweet-aïr’d beans were out in blooth, Down there ’ithin the elem gleäde; ​A yollow-banded bee did come, An’ softly-pitch, wi’ hushèn hum, Upon a beän, an’ there did sip, Upon a swaÿèn blossom’s lip: An’ there cried he, “Aye, I can zee, This blossom’s all a-zent vor me.”
A-jilted up an’ down, astride Upon a lofty ho’se a-trot, The meäster then come by wi’ pride, To zee the beäns that he’d a-got; An’ as he zot upon his ho’se, The ho’se ageän did snort an’ toss His high-ear’d head, an’ at the zight Ov all the blossom, black an’ white: “Ah! ah!” thought he, the seäme’s the bee, “Theäse beäns be all a-zent vor me.”
Zoo let the worold’s riches breed A strife o’ claïms, wi’ weak and strong, Vor now what cause have I to heed Who’s in the right, or in the wrong; Since there do come drough yonder hatch, An’ bloom below the house’s thatch, The best o’ maïdens, an’ do own That she is mine, an’ mine alwone: Zoo I can zee that love do gi’e
The best ov all good gifts to me.
Vor whose be all the crops an’ land A-won an’ lost, an’ bought, an zwold Or whose, a-roll’d vrom hand to hand, The highest money that’s a-twold? Vrom man to man a passèn on, ’Tis here to-day, to-morrow gone. ​But there’s a blessèn high above It all—a soul o’ stedvast love: Zoo let it vlee, if God do gi’e Sweet Jessie vor a gift to me.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Beäten Path

THE BEÄTEN PATH.
The beäten path where vo’k do meet  A-comèn on vrom vur an’ near; How many errands had the veet  That wore en out along so clear! Where eegrass bleädes be green in meäd,  Where bennets up the leäze be brown, An’ where the timber bridge do leäd  Athirt the cloty brook to town, Along the path by mile an’ mile, Athirt the vield, an’ brook, an’ stile.
There runnèn childern’s hearty laugh  Do come an’ vlee along—win’ swift: The wold man’s glossy-knobbèd staff  Do help his veet so hard to lift; The maïd do bear her basket by,  A-hangèn at her breäthèn zide; An’ ceäreless young men, straïght an’ spry,  Do whissle hwome at eventide, Along the path, a-reachèn by Below tall trees an’ oben sky.
There woone do goo to jaÿ a-head;  Another’s jaÿ’s behind his back. There woone his vu’st long mile do tread,  An’ woone the last ov all his track. An’ woone mid end a hopevul road,  Wi’ hopeless grief a-teäkèn on, As he that leätely vrom abroad  Come hwome to seek his love a-gone, Noo mwore to tread, wi’ comely eäse, The beäten path athirt the leäze.
​In tweilsome hardships, year by year,  He drough the worold wander’d wide, Still bent, in mind, both vur an’ near  To come an’ meäke his love his bride. An’ passèn here drough evenèn dew  He heästen’d, happy, to her door, But vound the wold vo’k only two,  Wi’ noo mwore vootsteps on the vloor, To walk ageän below the skies, Where beäten paths do vall an’ rise;
Vor she wer gone vrom e’thly eyes  To be a-kept in darksome sleep, Until the good ageän do rise  A-jaÿ to souls they left to weep. The rwose wer doust that bound her brow;  The moth did eat her Zunday ceäpe; Her frock wer out o’ fashion now;  Her shoes wer dried up out o’ sheäpe— The shoes that woonce did glitter black Along the leäzes beäten track.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Blackbird (2)

THE BLACKBIRD.
’Twer out at Penley I’d a-past A zummer day that went too vast, An’ when the zettèn zun did spread On western clouds a vi’ry red; The elems’ leafy limbs wer still Above the gravel-bedded rill, An’ under en did warble sh’ill, Avore the dusk, the blackbird.
An’ there, in sheädes o’ darksome yews, Did vlee the maïdens on their tooes, A-laughèn sh’ill wi’ merry feäce When we did vind their hidèn pleäce. ​’Ithin the loose-bough’d ivy’s gloom, Or lofty lilac, vull in bloom, Or hazzle-wrides that gi’ed em room Below the zingèn blackbird.
Above our heads the rooks did vlee To reach their nested elem-tree, An’ splashèn vish did rise to catch The wheelèn gnots above the hatch; An’ there the miller went along, A-smilèn, up the sheädy drong, But yeet too deaf to hear the zong A-zung us by the blackbird.
An’ there the sh’illy-bubblèn brook Did leäve behind his rocky nook, To run drough meäds a-chill’d wi’ dew, Vrom hour to hour the whole night drough; But still his murmurs wer a-drown’d By vaïces that mid never sound Ageän together on that ground, Wi’ whislèns o’ the blackbird.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Carter

THE CARTER.
O, I be a carter, wi’ my whip  A-smackèn loud, as by my zide, Up over hill, an’ down the dip,  The heavy lwoad do slowly ride.
An’ I do haul in all the crops,  An’ I do bring in vuzz vrom down; An’ I do goo vor wood to copse.  An’ car the corn an’ straw to town.
​An’ I do goo vor lime, an’ bring  Hwome cider wi’ my sleek-heäir’d team, An’ smack my limber whip an’ zing,  While all their bells do gaïly cheeme.
An’ I do always know the pleäce  To gi’e the hosses breath, or drug; An’ ev’ry hoss do know my feäce,  An’ mind my ’mether ho! an’ whug!
An’ merry haÿ-meäkers do ride  Vrom vield in zummer wi’ their prongs, In my blue waggon, zide by zide  Upon the reäves, a-zingèn zongs.
An’ when the vrost do catch the stream,  An’ oves wi’ icicles be hung, My pantèn hosses’ breath do steam  In white-grass’d vields, a-haulèn dung.
An’ mine’s the waggon fit vor lwoads,  An’ mine be lwoads to cut a rout; An’ mine’s a team, in routy rwoads,  To pull a lwoaded waggon out.
A zull is nothèn when do come  Behind their lags; an’ they do teäke A roller as they would a drum,  An’ harrow as they would a reäke.
O! I be a carter, wi’ my whip  A-smackèn loud, as by my zide, Up over hill, an’ down the dip,  The heavy lwoad do slowly ride.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Castle Ruins

THE CASTLE RUINS.
A happy day at Whitsuntide,  As soon’s the zun begun to vall, We all stroll’d up the steep hill-zide  To Meldon, girt an’ small; Out where the castle wall stood high A-mwoldrèn to the zunny sky.
An’ there wi’ Jenny took a stroll  Her youngest sister, Poll, so gaÿ, Bezide John Hind, ah! merry soul,  An’ mid her wedlock faÿ; An’ at our zides did plaÿ an’ run My little maïd an’ smaller son.
Above the beäten mwold upsprung  The driven doust, a-spreadèn light, An’ on the new-leav’d thorn, a-hung,  Wer wool a-quiv’rèn white; An’ corn, a sheenèn bright, did bow, On slopèn Meldon’s zunny brow.
There, down the rufless wall did glow  The zun upon the grassy vloor, An’ weakly-wandrèn winds did blow,  Unhinder’d by a door; ​An’ smokeless now avore the zun Did stan’ the ivy-girded tun.
My bwoy did watch the daws’ bright wings  A-flappèn vrom their ivy bow’rs; My wife did watch my maïd’s light springs,  Out here an’ there vor flow’rs; And John did zee noo tow’rs, the pleäce Vor him had only Polly’s feäce.
An’ there, of all that pried about  The walls, I overlook’d em best, An’ what o’ that? Why, I meäde out  Noo mwore than all the rest: That there war woonce the nest of zome That wer a-gone avore we come.
When woonce above the tun the smoke  Did wreathy blue among the trees, An’ down below, the livèn vo’k,  Did tweil as brisk as bees; Or zit wi’ weary knees, the while The sky wer lightless to their tweil.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Bwoat

THE BWOAT.
Where cows did slowly seek the brink O’ Stour, drough zunburnt grass, to drink; Wi’ vishèn float, that there did zink  An’ rise, I zot as in a dream. The dazzlèn zun did cast his light On hedge-row blossom, snowy white, Though nothèn yet did come in zight,  A-stirrèn on the straÿèn stream;
Till, out by sheädy rocks there show’d, A bwoat along his foamy road, Wi’ thik feäir maid at mill, a-row’d  Wi’ Jeäne behind her brother’s oars. An’ steätely as a queen o’ vo’k, She zot wi’ floatèn scarlet cloak, An’ comèn on, at ev’ry stroke,  Between my withy-sheäded shores.
The broken stream did idly try To show her sheäpe a-ridèn by, The rushes brown-bloom’d stems did ply,  As if they bow’d to her by will. The rings o’ water, wi’ a sock, Did break upon the mossy rock, An’ gi’e my beätèn heart a shock,  Above my float’s up-leapèn quill.
Then, lik’ a cloud below the skies, A-drifted off, wi’ less’nèn size, An’ lost, she floated vrom my eyes,  Where down below the stream did wind; An’ left the quiet weäves woonce mwore To zink to rest, a sky-blue’d vloor, Wi’ all so still’s the clote they bore,  Aye, all but my own ruffled mind.