OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/Lucy Gray

LUCY GRAY.
Oft had I heard of Lucy Gray, And when I cross'd the Wild, I chanc'd to see at break of day The solitary Child.
No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide Moor, The sweetest Thing that ever grew Beside a human door!
You yet may spy the Fawn at play, The Hare upon the Green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.
​"To-night will be a stormy night, You to the Town must go, And take a lantern, Child, to light Your Mother thro' the snow."
"That, Father! will I gladly do; 'Tis scarcely afternoon— The Minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the Moon."
At this the Father rais'd his hook And snapp'd a faggot-band; He plied his work, and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe, With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powd'ry snow That rises up like smoke.
​The storm came on before its time, She wander'd up and down, And many a hill did Lucy climb But never reach'd the Town.
The wretched Parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.
At day-break on a hill they stood That overlook'd the Moor; And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood A furlong from their door.
And now they homeward turn'd, and cry'd "In Heaven we all shall meet! When in the snow the Mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.
​Then downward from the steep hill's edge They track'd the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn-hedge, And by the long stone-wall;
And then an open field they cross'd, The marks were still the same; They track'd them on, nor ever lost, And to the Bridge they came.
They follow'd from the snowy bank The footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank, And further there were none.
Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living Child, That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome Wild.
​O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/Notes to the Poem of Michael

NOTES to the POEM of MICHAEL.
NOTE I.
Page 213—line 14 "There's Richard Bateman," &c. The story alluded to here is well known in the country. The chapel is called Ings Chapel; and is on the right hand side of the road leading from Kendal to Ambleside.
NOTE II.
Page 217—line 4 "——had design'd to build a sheep-fold." &c. It may be proper to inform some readers, that a sheep-fold in these mountains is an unroofed building of stone walls, with different divisions. It is generally placed by the side of a brook, for the convenience of washing the sheep; but it is also useful as a shelter for them, and as a place to drive them into, to enable the shepherds conveniently to single out one or more for any particular purpose.
END.
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/Errata

ERRATA.
Preface, p. xi. line 11, for Lucretia—read Lucretius.
Page 145, line 1, vol. ii. place a comma after the words "disconsolate creature," and omit the comma after "perhaps"
Page 147, line 5, vol. ii. for "both grey red and green," substitute grey, scarlet, and green.
Printed by BIGGS and Co. Bristol.
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/Lines (1)

LINES
Stranger! this hillock of mishapen stones Is not a ruin of the ancient time, Nor, as perchance thou rashly deem'st, the Cairn Of some old British Chief: 'tis nothing more Than the rude embryo of a little dome Or pleasure-house, which was to have been built Among the birch-trees of this rocky isle. But, as it chanc'd, Sir William having learn'd That from the shore a full-grown man might wade, And make himself a freeman of this spot ​At any hour he chose, the Knight forthwith Desisted, and the quarry and the mound Are monuments of his unfinish'd task.—— The block on which these lines are trac'd, perhaps, Was once selected as the corner-stone Of the intended pile, which would have been Some quaint odd play-thing of elaborate skill, So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush, And other little builders who dwell here, Had wonder'd at the work. But blame him not, For old Sir William was a gentle Knight Bred in this vale to which he appertain'd With all his ancestry. Then peace to him And for the outrage which he had devis'd Entire forgiveness.——But if thou art one On fire with thy impatience to become An Inmate of these mountains, if disturb'd By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn Out of the quiet rock the elements ​Of thy trim mansion destin'd soon to blaze In snow-white splendour, think again, and taught By old Sir William and his quarry, leave Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose, There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself, And let the red-breast hop from stone to stone.
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/Lines (2)

In the School of——is a tablet on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of the several persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the foundation of the School, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite one of those names the Author wrote the following lines.
If Nature, for a favorite Child In thee hath temper'd so her clay, That every hour thy heart runs wild Yet never once doth go astray,
Read o'er these lines; and then review This tablet, that thus humbly rears In such diversity of hue Its history of two hundred years.
​—When through this little wreck of fame, Cypher and syllable, thine eye Has travell'd down to Matthew's name, Pause with no common sympathy.
And if a sleeping tear should wake Then be it neither check'd nor stay'd: For Matthew a request I make Which for himself he had not made.
Poor Matthew, all his frolics o'er, Is silent as a standing pool, Far from the chimney's merry roar, And murmur of the village school.
The sighs which Matthew heav'd were sighs Of one tir'd out with fun and madness; The tears which came to Matthew's eyes Were tears of light, the oil of gladness.
​Yet sometimes when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round It seem'd as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.
—Thou soul of God's best earthly mould, Thou happy soul, and can it be That these two words of glittering gold Are all that must remain of thee?
# Lyrical Ballads (1800)/Volume 2/Inscription (2)

INSCRIPTION
For the House (an Outhouse) on the Island at Grasmere.
Rude is this Edifice, and Thou hast seen Buildings, albeit rude, that have maintain'd Proportions more harmonious, and approach'd To somewhat of a closer fellowship With the ideal grace. Yet as it is Do take it in good part; for he, the poor Vitruvius of our village, had no help From the great city; never on the leaves Of red Morocco folio saw display'd The skeletons and pre-existing ghosts Of Beauties yet unborn, the rustic Box, Snug Cot, with Coach-house, Shed and Hermitage. It is a homely pile, yet to these walls ​The heifer comes in the snow-storm, and here The new-dropp'd lamb finds shelter from the wind. And hither does one Poet sometimes row His pinnace, a small vagrant barge, up-piled With plenteous store of heath and wither'd fern, A lading which he with his sickle cuts Among the mountains, and beneath this roof He makes his summer couch, and here at noon Spreads out his limbs, while, yet unborn, the sheep Panting beneath the burthen of their wool Lie round him, even as if they were a part Of his own household: nor, while from his bed He through that door-place looks toward the lake And to the stirring breezes, does he want Creations lovely as the work of sleep, Fair sights, and visions of romantic joy.
# Lilith

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
fantasy novel, first published in 1895. It was reprinted in paperback by Ballantine Books as the fifth volume of the Ballantine Adult Fantasy series in September 1969. Lilith is considered among the darkest of MacDonald's works, and among the most profound. It is a story concerning the nature of life, death, and salvation. In the story, MacDonald mentions a cosmic sleep that heals tortured souls, preceding the salvation of all. MacDonald was a Christian universalist, believing that all will eventually be saved. However, in this story, divine punishment is not taken lightly, and salvation is hard-won.”
Contents:
* Introduction
* Chapter I: THE LIBRARY
* Chapter II: THE MIRROR
* Chapter III: THE RAVEN
* Chapter IV: SOMEWHERE OR NOWHERE?
* Chapter V: THE OLD CHURCH
* Chapter VI: THE SEXTON'S COTTAGE
* Chapter VII: THE CEMETERY
* Chapter VIII: MY FATHER'S MANUSCRIPT
* Chapter IX: I REPENT
* Chapter X: THE BAD BURROW
* Chapter XI: THE EVIL WOOD
* Chapter XII: FRIENDS AND FOES
* Chapter XIII: THE LITTLE ONES
* Chapter XIV: A CRISIS
* Chapter XV: A STRANGE HOSTESS
* Chapter XVI: A GRUESOME DANCE
* Chapter XVII: A GROTESQUE TRAGEDY
* Chapter XVIII: DEAD OR ALIVE?
* Chapter XIX: THE WHITE LEECH
* Chapter XX: GONE!—BUT HOW?
* Chapter XXI: THE FUGITIVE MOTHER
* Chapter XXII: BULIKA
* Chapter XXIII: A WOMAN OF BULIKA
* Chapter XXIV: THE WHITE LEOPARDESS
* Chapter XXV: THE PRINCESS
* Chapter XXVI: A BATTLE ROYAL
* Chapter XXVII: THE SILENT FOUNTAIN
* Chapter XXVIII: I AM SILENCED
* Chapter XXIX: THE PERSIAN CAT
* Chapter XXX: ADAM EXPLAINS
* Chapter XXXI: THE SEXTON'S OLD HORSE
* Chapter XXXII: THE LOVERS AND THE BAGS
* Chapter XXXIII: LONA'S NARRATIVE
* Chapter XXXIV: PREPARATION
* Chapter XXXVI: MOTHER AND DAUGHTER
* Chapter XXXVII: THE SHADOW
* Chapter XXXVIII: TO THE HOUSE OF BITTERNESS
* Chapter XXXIX: THAT NIGHT
* Chapter XL: THE HOUSE OF DEATH
* Chapter XLI: I AM SENT
* Chapter XLII: I SLEEP THE SLEEP
* Chapter XLIII: THE DREAMS THAT CAME
* Chapter XLIV: THE WAKING
* Chapter XLV: THE JOURNEY HOME
* Chapter XLVI: THE CITY
* Chapter XLVII: THE "ENDLESS ENDING"
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
# Letters of a Javanese princess/Chapter 42

XLII
July 28, 1902.
NO cloud lasts for ever; neither is there such a thing as eternal sun-shine. From the darkest night the most beautiful morning is bom and here I console myself. Human life is a true reflection of the life of nature.
What we must pray for day and night is strength. But the rain which makes the leaf and bud of one plant burst forth, beats another into the earth, where it rots.
# Marlborough and other poems/A hundred thousand million mites we go

XXXII
A hundred thousand million mites we go Wheeling and tacking o'er the eternal plain, Some black with death—and some are white with woe. Who sent us forth? Who takes us home again?
And there is sound of hymns of praise—to whom? And curses—on whom curses?—snap the air. And there is hope goes hand in hand with gloom, And blood and indignation and despair.
And there is murmuring of the multitude And blindness and great blindness, until some Step forth and challenge blind Vicissitude Who tramples on them: so that fewer come.
And nations, ankle-deep in love or hate, Throw darts or kisses all the unwitting hour Beside the ominous unseen tide of fate; And there is emptiness and drink and power.
​And some are mounted on swift steeds of thought And some drag sluggish feet of stable toil. Yet all, as though they furiously sought, Twist turn and tussle, close and cling and coil.
A hundred thousand million mites we sway Writhing and tossing on the eternal plain, Some black with death—but most are bright with Day! Who sent us forth? Who brings us home again?
September 1914
# Marlborough and other poems/A Sonnet

XXXIV
When you see millions of the mouthless dead Across your dreams in pale battalions go, Say not soft things as other men have said, That you'll remember. For you need not so. Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know It is not curses heaped on each gashed head? Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow. Nor honour. It is easy to be dead. Say only this, "They are dead." Then add thereto, "Yet many a better one has died before." Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you Perceive one face that you loved heretofore, It is a spook. None wears the face you knew. Great death has made all his for evermore.
# Marlborough and other poems/A Tale of Two Careers

XIII
A TALE OF TWO CAREERS
I SUCCESS
He does not dress as other men, His 'kish' is loud and gay, His 'side' is as the 'side' of ten Because his 'barnes' are grey.
His head has swollen to a size Beyond the proper size for heads, He metaphorically buys The ground on which he treads.
Before his face of haughty grace The ordinary mortal cowers: A 'forty-cap' has put the chap Into another world from ours.
The funny little world that lies 'Twixt High Street and the Mound Is just a swarm of buzzing flies That aimlessly go round:
​If one is stronger in the limb Or better able to work hard, It's quite amusing to watch him Ascending heavenward.
But if one cannot work or play (Who loves the better part too well), It's really sad to see the lad Retained compulsorily in hell.
II FAILURE
We are the wasters, who have no Hope in this world here, neither fame, Because we cannot collar low Nor write a strange dead tongue the same As strange dead men did long ago.
We are the weary, who begin The race with joy, but early fail, Because we do not care to win A race that goes not to the frail And humble: only the proud come in.
We are the shadow-forms, who pass Unheeded hence from work and play. We are to-day, but like the grass That to-day is, we pass away; And no one stops to say 'Alas!'
​Though we have little, all we have We give our School. And no return We can expect for what we gave; No joys; only a summons stern, "Depart, for others entrance crave!"
As soon as she can clearly prove That from us is no hope of gain, Because we only bring her love And cannot bring her strength or brain, She tells us, "Go: it is enough."
She turns us out at seventeen, We may not know her any more, And all our life with her has been A life of seeing others score, While we sink lower and are mean.
We have seen others reap success Full-measure. None has come to us. Our life has been one failure. Yes, But does not God prefer it thus? God does not also praise success.
And for each failure that we meet, And for each place we drop behind, Each toil that holds our aching feet, Each star we seek and never find, God, knowing, gives us comfort meet.
​The School we care for has not cared To cherish nor keep our names to be Memorials. God hath prepared Some better thing for us, for we His hopes have known, His failures shared.
November 1912
# Marlborough and other poems/All the hills and vales along

OF WAR AND DEATH
XXX
All the hills and vales along Earth is bursting into song, And the singers are the chaps Who are going to die perhaps. O sing, marching men, Till the valleys ring again. Give your gladness to earth's keeping, So be glad, when you are sleeping.
Cast away regret and rue, Think what you are marching to. Little live, great pass. Jesus Christ and Barabbas Were found the same day. This died, that went his way. So sing with joyful breath, For why, you are going to death. Teeming earth will surely store All the gladness that you pour.
​Earth that never doubts nor fears, Earth that knows of death, not tears, Earth that bore with joyful ease Hemlock for Socrates, Earth that blossomed and was glad 'Neath the cross that Christ had, Shall rejoice and blossom too When the bullet reaches you. Wherefore, men marching On the road to death, sing! Pour your gladness on earth's head, So be merry, so be dead.
From the hills and valleys earth Shouts back the sound of mirth, Tramp of feet and lilt of song Ringing all the road along. All the music of their going, Ringing swinging glad song-throwing, Earth will echo still, when foot Lies numb and voice mute. On, marching men, on To the gates of death with song. Sow your gladness for earth's reaping, So you may be glad, though sleeping. Strew your gladness on earth's bed, So be merry, so be dead.
# Marlborough and other poems/Brand

XXIII
BRAND
Thou trod'st the shifting sand path where man's race is. The print of thy soft sandals is still clear. I too have trodden it those prints a-near, But the sea washes out my tired foot-traces. And all that thou hast healed and holpen here I yearned to heal and help and wipe the tear Away. But still I trod unpeopled spaces. I had no twelve to follow my pure paces. For I had thy misgivings and thy fear, Thy crown of scorn, thy suffering's sharp spear, Thy hopes, thy longings—only not thy dear Love (for my crying love would no man hear), Thy will to love, but not thy love's sweet graces, That deep firm foothold which no sea erases. I think that thou wast I in bygone places In an intense eliminated year. Now born again in days that are more drear I wander unfulfilled: and see strange faces.
# Marlborough and other poems/Autumn Dawn

IV
AUTUMN DAWN
And this is morning. Would you think That this was the morning, when the land Is full of heavy eyes that blink Half-opened, and the tall trees stand Too tired to shake away the drops Of passing night that cling around Their branches and weigh down their tops: And the grey sky leans on the ground? The thrush sings once or twice, but stops Affrighted by the silent sound. The sheep, scarce moving, munches, moans. The slow herd mumbles, thick with phlegm. The grey road-mender, hacking stones, Is now become as one of them. Old mother Earth has rubbed her eyes And stayed, so senseless, lying down. Old mother is too tired to rise And lay aside her grey nightgown, And come with singing and with strength In loud exuberance of day, Swift-darting. She is tired at length, Done up, past bearing, you would say. ​She'll come no more in lust of strife, In hedge's leap, and wild bird's cries, In winds that cut you like a knife, In days of laughter and swift skies, That palpably pulsate with life, With life that kills, with life that dies. But in a morning such as this Is neither life nor death to see, Only that state which some call bliss, Grey hopeless immortality. Earth is at length bedrid. She is Supinest of the things that be: And stilly, heavy with long years, Brings forth such days in dumb regret, Immortal days, that rise in tears, And cannot, though they strive to, set.
The mists do move. The wind takes breath. The sun appeareth over there, And with red fingers hasteneth From Earth's grey bed the clothes to tear, And strike the heavy mist's dank tent. And Earth uprises with a sigh. She is astir. She is not spent. And yet she lives and yet can die. The grey road-mender from the ditch Looks up. He has not looked before. The stunted tree sways like the witch It was: 'tis living witch once more. ​The winds are washen. In the deep Dew of the morn they've washed. The skies Are changing dress. The clumsy sheep Bound, and earth's many bosoms rise, And earth's green tresses spring and leap About her brow. The earth has eyes, The earth has voice, the earth has breath, As o'er the land and through the air, With wingéd sandals, Life and Death Speed hand in hand—that winsome pair!
16 September 1913
# Marlborough and other poems/Barbury Camp

OF THE DOWNS
I
BARBURY CAMP
We burrowed night and day with tools of lead, Heaped the bank up and cast it in a ring And hurled the earth above. And Caesar said, "Why, it is excellent. I like the thing." We, who are dead, Made it, and wrought, and Caesar liked the thing.
And here we strove, and here we felt each vein Ice-bound, each limb fast-frozen, all night long. And here we held communion with the rain That lashed us into manhood with its thong, Cleansing through pain. And the wind visited us and made us strong.
Up from around us, numbers without name, Strong men and naked, vast, on either hand Pressing us in, they came. And the wind came And bitter rain, turning grey all the land. That was our game, To fight with men and storms, and it was grand.
​For many days we fought them, and our sweat Watered the grass, making it spring up green, Blooming for us. And, if the wind was wet, Our blood wetted the wind, making it keen With the hatred And wrath and courage that our blood had been.
So, fighting men and winds and tempests, hot With joy and hate and battle-lust, we fell Where we fought. And God said, "Killed at last then? What! Ye that are too strong for heaven, too clean for hell, (God said) stir not. This be your heaven, or, if ye will, your hell."
So again we fight and wrestle, and again Hurl the earth up and cast it in a ring. But when the wind comes up, driving the rain (Each rain-drop a fiery steed), and the mists rolling Up from the plain, This wild procession, this impetuous thing,
Hold us amazed. We mount the wind-cars, then Whip up the steeds and drive through all the world, Searching to find somewhere some brethren, Sons of the winds and waters of the world. We, who were men, Have sought, and found no men in all this world.
​Wind, that has blown here always ceaselessly, Bringing, if any man can understand, Might to the mighty, freedom to the free; Wind, that has caught us, cleansed us, made us grand, Wind that is we (We that were men)—make men in all this land,
That so may live and wrestle and hate that when They fall at last exultant, as we fell, And come to God, God may say, "Do you come then Mildly enquiring, is it heaven or hell? Why! Ye were men! Back to your winds and rains. Be these your heaven and hell!"
24 March 1913
# Marlborough and other poems/A Call to Action

OF LIFE AND THOUGHT
XV
A CALL TO ACTION
I
A thousand years have passed away, Cast back your glances on the scene, Compare this England of to-day With England as she once has been.
Fast beat the pulse of living then: The hum of movement, throb of war, The rushing mighty sound of men Reverberated loud and far.
They girt their loins up and they trod The path of danger, rough and high; For Action, Action was their god, "Be up and doing" was their cry.
A thousand years have passed away; The sands of life are running low; The world is sleeping out her day; The day is dying be it so.
​A thousand years have passed amain; The sands of life are running thin; Thought is our leader—Thought is vain; Speech is our goddess—Speech is sin.
II
It needs no thought to understand, No speech to tell, nor sight to see That there has come upon our land The curse of Inactivity.
We do not see the vital point That 'tis the eighth, most deadly, sin To wail, "The world is out of joint"— And not attempt to put it in.
We see the swollen stream of crime Flow hourly past us, thick and wide; We gaze with interest for a time, And pass by on the other side.
We see the tide of human sin Rush roaring past our very door, And scarcely one man plunges in To drag the drowning to the shore.
​We, dull and dreamy, stand and blink, Forgetting glory, strength and pride, Half—listless watchers on the brink, Half—ruined victims of the tide.
III
We question, answer, make defence, We sneer, we scoff, we criticize, We wail and moan our decadence, Enquire, investigate, surmise;
We preach and prattle, peer and pry And fit together two and two: We ponder, argue, shout, swear, lie— We will not, for we cannot, do.
Pale puny soldiers of the pen, Absorbed in this your inky strife, Act as of old, when men were men, England herself and life yet life.
October 1912
# McNeil v. United States/Opinion of the Court

* Court Documents
* Case Syllabus
* Per Curiam Opinion of the Court
United States Supreme Court
395 U.S. 463
Carl McNEIL v. UNITED STATES.
No. 1048, Misc.
The motion for leave to proceed in forma pauperis and the petition for a writ of certiorari are granted. The judgment is vacated and the case is remanded to the United States District Court for the Eastern District of Virginia for further consideration in light of McKart v. United States, 395 U.S. 185, 89 S.Ct. 1657, 23 L.Ed.2d 194.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse