OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Songs of Russia/Russia’s Lament

RUSSIA’S LAMENT
N. A. NEKRASOV (B. 1821, d. 1877).
Dost thou know, my native country, Any house or corner lone Where thy Tiller and thy Sower, Russia’s peasant, does not moan?
In the fields, along the highways, In the cells and dungeons black, In the mines in iron fetters, By the side of barn and stack;
’Neath the carts, his nightly shelter On the steppes so wide and bare, All the air is filled with groaning Every hour and everywhere.
Groans in huts, in town and village— E’en the sunlight’s self he hates— Groans before the halls of justice, Buffetings at mansion-gates.
On the Volga, hark, what wailing O’er the mighty river floats? ’Tis a song, they say—the chanting Of the men who haul the boats.
Thou dost not in spring, vast Volga, Flood the fields along thy strand As our nation’s flood of sorrow, Swelling, overflows the land.
O my heart, what is the meaning Of this endless anguish deep? Wilt thou ever, O my country, Waken, full of strength, from sleep?
Or, by heaven’s mystic mandate, Is thy fate fulfilled to-day, Singing thus thy dirge, thy death-song, Falling then asleep for aye?
# Songs of Russia/The Jewish Soldier

THE JEWISH SOLDIER
(From the Yiddish of Morris Rosenfeld)
Not far from Plevna, fifty and a hundred steps away, There is a grave, but where it lies no passer-by could say. The place is all forsaken, a dreary spot and lone; No wreath lies on that sepulchre, there stands no marble stone; There grows no grass, no flower, no leaf—yet there in death’s embrace A hero rests, a soldier brave who came of Jewish race. Upon the spot where erst he fell in battle he doth lie, Where Russia celebrates with pride her greatest victory.
A deep, dead silence reigns around; all things have fallen asleep; But when the clock upon the tower at midnight boometh deep, A strong east wind begins to blow; it thunders, it appals,
It clamors, storms and rattles, it roars and loudly calls; And ’neath the storm the silent earth cleaves and doth open stand; The hero rises from his grave, his drawn sword in his hand.
He stands upon the fortress, grim courage in his frown, And from the wound within his heart the blood is flowing down. His pure blood wells forth freely, his heart’s deep wound is wide; He lifts his sword, and cries in tones that ring on every side: “My comrades of the war, arise to judgment! Speak and say! Tell me, did I fight faithfully upon the battle day? Say, did I fall upon this spot with an heroic band, And die for Russia’s honor, die for the Russian land?”
And then in wrath a countless host awakens suddenly, As many as the sands that sleep beside a silent sea. For swiftly the whole army arises at his call;
From near and far, with heavy tread, they gather, one and all. There is a trampling and a clang, a marching and a hum, A galloping and whirling, as in a cloud they come; And of that phantom army each soldier lifts his hand, And swears, “You died with honor, died for your native land!”
Soon all again is quiet, the night is still as death, And all that countless army has vanished in a breath. But still the Jewish soldier on the fortress stands alone, And every word he utters like a hot grenade is thrown: “O Russia! from my wife and child you reft me without ruth, And to defend your honor I perished in my youth. Why now my wretched family drive forth their bread to find In distant lands? A heavy curse I send you on the wind!”
Scarce has the curse been uttered—full fraught with pain, alack!—
When into the cold grave again the tempest sweeps him back; And every night at midnight this scene is acted o’er. The soldier’s curses, deep and dread, are gathering more and more. They grow and grow; the tempest’s wings on to Gatschina bear Those curses keen, and scatter them upon the palace there.
# Songs of Russia/The Mourner

THE MOURNER
NEKRASOV
As to war’s terrors and alarms I list, When some new victim hath his life-blood shed, ’Tis not his wife I pity, nor his friend, Nor grieve I for the hero who is dead.
The wife in time will cease to mourn her loss, The best of friends and comrades will forget; But there is one who will remember him Even unto her grave, with eyes still wet.
Amid our trivial, hypocritic lives, The only tears all holy and sincere That I have seen, are those by mothers shed, Who sorrow for their children, ever dear.
Their children on the bloody field who fell They ne’er forget, but mourn them all their days. Like are they to the weeping willow tree, That never can its drooping branches raise.
# Songs of Russia/The People’s Poet

THE PEOPLE’S POET
NADSON
I know, dear friend, deep in my heart I know My verse is pale and faint and lacking power. Oft for its weakness do I sadly grieve, And pour forth secret tears at night’s still hour.
In vain at times forth from my lips would burst A cry of anguish I can scarce endure; In vain at times love almost burns my soul— Cold is our tongue, and lamentably poor.
The rainbow of the flowers of many kinds, Sweet music dying on the chord away, Grief for ideals, and tears for liberty— How tell of these in words of every day?
This boundless world outspread before our eyes, The world of mind, so full of anxious fear— How draw them true to life, with timid strokes, Pent in my verse’s narrow framework here?
But to be mute while hearing sounds of woe That to allay we struggle eagerly— Beneath the storm of strife, in face of pain, Wounded, I cannot, will not silent be.
If hero-like I may not shatter chains, Nor prophet-like spread light sublime and clear, I with the crowd have mixed, and share its pain, And give, as strength permits me, help and cheer.
# Songs of Russia/The Prisoner’s Dream

THE PRISONER’S DREAM
P. POLIVANOV
A darksome night of winter, Dead silence without end! Where are you, my beloved, My brave and faithful friend?
Your image, pure and lovely, In spite of bolt and bar, Before me comes; your fond, clear glance Shines on me like a star.
The long, long years of parting, With grief and longing rife, The hand weighed down by bondage, Pains of a shattered life—
Not all could dim that image, Your sweet head, golden bright; Still o’er my thoughts it reigneth, Unchanged its magic might.
In this cold grave, I, living, Am buried from the sun; Monotonously, mournfully, The years pass, one by one.
Sometimes in this dead stillness Is heard a groaning deep; The heart beats slowly, wearily, And thought is lost in sleep.
But through the gloom your image Shines like a magic lamp; Like a bright beam, it drives away The dark cell’s cold and damp.
For you is all forgotten; I far away have flown In dreams—and then my heart, dear love, Is filled with you alone.
What fate has fallen to you Of sorrow or delight? Your path across life’s meadow, Has it been smooth and bright?
# Songs of Russia/The Word

THE WORD
NADSON
Oh, had the Muses given to me the gift Of burning speech, of clear and fiery song, How mercilessly and how sternly then Would I with infamy brand vice and wrong!
I would rouse all against the dark to strive, Unfurl the banner bright of light and fire, And with my glowing song the listening world With longing for the truth I would inspire.
Oh, with what mighty laughter I would laugh! What burning tears of sorrow I would shed! To earth the holy, long-forgot Ideal Should come again, arisen from the dead.
The world should waken, filled with fear, and quake, Like to a culprit, conscience-struck within; It should look back upon the guilty past, And meekly wait the sentence for its sin.
In that dead silence reigning all around,
My fearless voice should thunder loud and clear,
Resound with indignation’s sacred fire, And ring with teardrops heartfelt and sincere.
Not unto me such power of speech is given; My voice is weak to plead the cause of truth. My soul indeed is ready for the strife, But in me fails the energy of youth.
Within my breast is but a barren sob, Upon my lips, reproach that cannot save, And in my heart the sad acknowledgment That I am not a prophet, but a slave.
# Songs of Russia/Spring in Prison

SPRING IN PRISON
P. POLIVANOV
The spring is coming! Nature everywhere Has wakened from her long and wintry sleep, And she has shaken off her robe of snow, And broken up the ice, so thick and deep.
O’er the clear sky the cranes in northward flight Have passed in bands since early dawn of day; Wild ducks are rushing by in clanging flocks; The curlew’s whistle sounds from far away.
The noisy sea-gull hovers o’er the lake, And still to-day, as in the days of yore, All full of mighty strength, with stormy joy, The wave is breaking on the sandy shore.
Long since, the joyous sounds of wakening life Have ceased an echo in our breasts to find; Deadened the soul has grown through grief and pain, And over-weary are the heart and mind.
The spring sun gives us but a cheerless light Through the dull glass that dims its golden ray, And the heart harbors deep a gloomy thought That even springtime will not drive away.
# Songs of Russia/Table of Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS
# Songs of Russia/The Song of the Storm-Finch

SONGS OF RUSSIA
THE SONG OF THE STORM-FINCH
maxim gorky
The strong wind is gathering the storm-clouds together Above the gray plain of the ocean so wide. The storm-finch, the bird that resembles dark lightning, Between clouds and ocean is soaring in pride.
Now skimming the waves with his wings, and now shooting Up, arrow-like, into the dark clouds on high, The storm-finch is clamoring loudly and shrilly; The clouds can hear joy in the bird’s fearless cry.
In that cry is the yearning, the thirst for the tempest, And anger’s hot might in its wild notes is heard; The keen fire of passion, the faith in sure triumph— All these the clouds hear in the voice of the bird.
The seagulls lament when a storm is impending, They flit o’er the waves with a wail in their cry; They are ready to hide in the depths of the ocean Their dread of the tempest that threatens on high.
The cargeese and grebes, too, shriek hoarsely in terror, They mourn and complain when the tempest is near; They know not the joy of a life-and-death struggle; The crash of the thunderbolt fills them with fear.
The fat, foolish penguin hides, timid and craven, In nooks of the cliffs, where it finds a safe home; Alone the proud storm-finch soars freely and boldly Above the rough ocean, all hoary with foam.
Still nearer and darker the storm-clouds are lowering Above the broad ocean; the waves as they beat Are singing and dancing; they lift themselves upward As if they were longing the thunder to meet.
The thunder is crashing, the billows are roaring, And foaming with rage, and they shriek and they gasp As they strive with the gale. Now the storm-wind clasps fiercely A bevy of waves in his powerful grasp,
And hurls them, with all his mad strength, in grim fury, Against the precipitous cliffs of the rock. The emerald masses of water are shattered To spray and fine mist by the force of the shock.
The storm-finch, the bird that resembles dark lightning, Is soaring with cries ’mid the tempest’s fierce breath; Like an arrow he pierces the clouds; with his pinions He dashes the foam from the billows beneath.
He darts like a haughty black demon of tempest, In wild exultation that knows no alloy. ’Twixt the sea and the sky he is laughing and sobbing; He laughs to the clouds, he is sobbing for joy!
In the wrath of the thunder, the keen, quick-eared demon Has long since detected a note of fatigue. He is firm in his faith that the clouds will not cover The bright sun for aye, though they stretch league on league.
The storm-wind is howling, the thunder is roaring; With flame blue and lambent the cloud-masses glow O’er the fathomless ocean; it catches the lightnings, And quenches them deep in its whirlpool below.
Like serpents of fire in the dark ocean writhing, The lightnings reflected there quiver and shake As into the blackness they vanish forever. The tempest! Now quickly the tempest will break!
The storm-finch soars fearless and proud ’mid the lightnings, Above the wild waves that the roaring winds fret; And what is the prophet of victory saying? “Oh, let the storm burst! Fiercer yet—fiercer yet!”
# Songs of the Road/Sir Nigel's Song

SIR NIGEL'S SONG
A sword! A sword! Ah, give me a sword! For the world is all to win. Though the way be hard and the door be barred, The strong man enters in. If Chance or Fate still hold the gate, Give me the iron key, And turret high, my plume shall fly, Or you may weep for me!
A horse! A horse! Ah, give me a horse, To bear me out afar, Where blackest need and grimmest deed, And sweetest perils are. ​Hold thou my ways from glutted days, Where poisoned leisure lies, And point the path of tears and wrath Which mounts to high emprise.
A heart! A heart! Ah, give me a heart, To rise to circumstance! Serene and high, and bold to try The hazard of a chance. With strength to wait, but fixed as fate, To plan and dare and do; The peer of all—and only thrall, Sweet lady mine, to you!
# Songs of the Road/The Arab Steed

THE ARAB STEED
I gave the 'orse 'is evenin' feed, And bedded of 'im down, And went to 'ear the sing-song In the bar-room of the Crown, And one young feller spoke a piece As told a kind of tale, About an Arab man wot 'ad A certain 'orse for sale.
I 'ave no grudge against the man— I never 'eard 'is name, But if he was my closest pal I'd say the very same, ​For wot you do in other things Is neither 'ere nor there, But w'en it comes to 'orses You must keep upon the square.
Now I'm tellin' you the story Just as it was told last night, And if I wrong this Arab man Then 'e can set me right; But s'posin' all these fac's are fac's, Then I make bold to say That I think it was not sportsmanlike To act in sich a way.
For, as I understand the thing, 'E went to sell this steed— Which is a name they give a 'orse Of some outlandish breed—, ​And soon 'e found a customer, A proper sportin' gent, Who planked 'is money down at once Without no argument.
Now when the deal was finished And the money paid, you'd think This Arab would 'ave asked the gent At once to name 'is drink, Or at least 'ave thanked 'im kindly, An' wished 'im a good day, And own as 'e'd been treated In a very 'andsome way.
But instead o' this 'e started A-talkin' to the steed, And speakin' of its 'braided mane' An' of its 'wingèd speed,' ​And other sich expressions With which I can't agree, For a 'orse with wings an' braids an' things Is not the 'orse for me.
The moment that 'e 'ad the cash— Or wot 'e called the gold, 'E turned as nasty as could be. Says 'e, 'You're sold! You're sold!' Them was 'is words; it's not for me To settle wot he meant; It may 'ave been the 'orse was sold, It may 'ave been the gent.
I've not a word to say agin His fondness for 'is 'orse, But why should 'e insinivate The gent would treat 'im worse? ​An' why should 'e go talkin' In that aggravatin' way, As if the gent would gallop 'im And wallop 'im all day?
It may 'ave been an' 'arness 'orse, It may 'ave been an 'ack, But a bargain is a bargain, An' there ain't no goin' back; For when you've picked the money up, That finishes the deal, And after that your mouth is shut, Wotever you may feel.
Supposin' this 'ere Arab man 'Ad wanted to be free, 'E could 'ave done it businesslike, The same as you or me; ​A fiver might 'ave squared the gent, An' then 'e could 'ave claimed As 'e'd cleared 'imself quite 'andsome, And no call to be ashamed.
But instead 'o that this Arab man Went on from bad to worse, An' took an' chucked the money At the cove wot bought the 'orse; 'E'd 'ave learned 'im better manners, If 'e'd waited there a bit, But 'e scooted on 'is bloomin' steed As 'ard as 'e could split.
Per'aps 'e sold 'im after, Or per'aps 'e 'ires 'im out, But I'd like to warm that Arab man Wen next 'e comes about; ​For wot 'e does in other things Is neither 'ere nor there, But w'en it comes to 'orses We must keep 'im on the square.
# Songs of the Road/The End

THE END
'Tell me what to get and I will get it. 'Then get that picture—that—the girl in white.' 'Now tell me where you wish that I should set it.' 'Lean it where I can see it—in the light.'
'If there is more, sir, you have but to say it.' 'Then bring those letters—those which lie apart.' 'Here is the packet! Tell me where to lay it.' 'Stoop over, nurse, and lay it on my heart.'
​'Thanks for your silence, nurse! You understand me! And now I'll try to manage for myself. But, as you go, I'll trouble you to hand me The small blue bottle there upon the shelf.
'And so farewell! I feel that I am keeping The sunlight from you; may your walk be bright! When you return I may perchance be sleeping, So, ere you go, one hand-clasp . . . and good night!'
# Songs of the Road/The Message

THE MESSAGE
(From Heine)
Up, dear laddie, saddle quick, And spring upon the leather! Away post haste o'er fell and waste With whip and spur together!
And when you win to Duncan's kin Draw one of them aside And shortly say, 'Which daughter may We welcome as the bride?'
​And if he says, 'It is the dark,' Then quickly bring the mare, But if he says, 'It is the blonde,' Then you have time to spare.
But buy from off the saddler man The stoutest cord you see, Ride at your ease and say no word, But bring it back to me.
# Songs of the Road/The Banner of Progress

THE BANNER OF PROGRESS
There's a banner in our van, And we follow as we can, For at times we scarce can see it, And at times it flutters high. But however it be flown, Still we know it as our own, And we follow, ever follow, Where we see the banner fly.
In the struggle and the strife, In the weariness of life, The banner-man may stumble, He may falter in the fight. ​But if one should fail or slip, There are other hands to grip, And it's forward, ever forward, From the darkness to the light.
# Songs of the Road/The Bay Horse

THE BAY HORSE
Squire wants the bay horse, For it is the best. Squire holds the mortgage; Where's the interest? Haven't got the interest, Can't raise a sou; Shan't sell the bay horse, Whatever he may do.
Did you see the bay horse? Such a one to go! He took a bit of ridin'; When I showed him at the Show. ​First prize the broad jump, First prize the high; Gold medal, Class A, You'll see it by-and-by.
I bred the bay horse On the Withy Farm. I broke the bay horse, He broke my arm. Don't blame the bay horse, Blame the brittle bone, I bred him and I've fed him, And he's all my very own.
Just watch the bay horse Chock full of sense! Ain't he just beautiful, Risin' to a fence! ​Just hear the bay horse Whinin' in his stall, Purrin' like a pussy cat When he hears me call.
But if Squire's lawyer Serves me with his writ, I'll take the bay horse To Marley gravel pit. Over the quarry edge, I'll sit him tight, If he wants the brown hide, He's welcome to the white!
# Songs of the Road/The Echo

A loose translation of "Die Bergstimme", from Heine's collection Buch der Lieder (1827).
THE ECHO
(After Heine)
Through the lonely mountain land There rode a cavalier. 'Oh ride I to my darling's arms, Or to the grave so drear?' The Echo answered clear, 'The grave so drear.'
So onward rode the cavalier And clouded was his brow. 'If now my hour be truly come, Ah well, it must be now!' The Echo answered low, 'It must be now.'
# Songs of the Road/The Empire

THE EMPIRE
1902
They said that it had feet of clay, That its fall was sure and quick. In the flames of yesterday All the clay was burned to brick. When they carved our epitaph And marked us doomed beyond recall, 'We are,' we answered, with a laugh, 'The Empire that declines to fall.
# Solidarity Forever

* "Solidarity Forever" in When the Leaves Come Out (1917)
* "Solidarity Forever!" in Songs of the Workers (1919, 15th edition)
* "Solidarity Forever!" in Songs of the Industrial Workers of the World (c. 1920, 4th Australian edition)
# Solitude (Carroll)

* "Solitude" in Phantasmagoria and Other Poems (1869)
* "Solitude" in Three Sunsets and Other Poems (1898)
* "Solitude" in The Complete Works of Lewis Carroll (1920)
# Solicitors Journal

The Solicitors Journal is a periodical, published from 1857 onwards. Certain parts of this work are in the public domain in the United States because they were published before 1929.
* Volume 1 (1857) (transcription project)
* Volume 2 (1858) External scan External scan
* Volume 3 (1859) External scan
* Volume 4 (1860) External scan External scan
* Volume 5 (1861) External scan External scan IA
* Volume 6 (1862) External scan
* Volume 7 (1863) External scan
* Volume 8 (1864) External scan
* Volume 9 (1865) External scan External scan
* Volume 10 (1866) External scan
* Volume 11 (1867) External scan
* Volume 12 (1868) External scan External scan
* Volume 13 (1869) External scan
* Volume 14 (1870) External scan
* Volume 15 (1871) External scan External scan IA
* Volume 16 (1872) External scan
* Volume 17 (1873) External scan External scan
* Volume 18 (1874) External scan
* Volume 19 (1875) External scan
* Volume 20 (1876) External scan
* Volume 21 (1877) External scan External scan
* Volume 22 (1878) External scan
* Volume 23 (1879) External scan
* Volume 24 (1880) External scan External scan
# Soliloquy

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Soliloquy."
* 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.
* "Soliloquy, I", a poem by Richard Aldington
* "Soliloquy, II", a poem by Richard Aldington
* "Soliloquy", a poem by Francis Ledwidge
# Solitude

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Solitude."
* 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.

### Solitude

* "Solitude", a poem by Lewis Carroll
* "Solitude", a poem by Mihai Eminescu
* "Solitude", a poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
* "Solitude", a poem by James Grainger
* "Solitude", a poem by William Dean Howells
* "Solitude", an essay by Alice Meynell
* "Solitude", a poem by Alexander Pope
* "Solitude", a poem by Lydia Huntley Sigourney
* "Solitude", a poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

### The Solitude

* "The Solitude", a poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
# Solitude (Lange)

Eternal solitaries - human souls, Solitaries blown astray; Each wanders through the Milky Way, Each in her finite circle rolls.
Like wandering planets they gaze At one another in the sky's blue halls; Each in her finite circle rolls, But never from her orbit sways.
Across the skies each must gaze, Yearning to reach the other's hand, But never from her orbit sways; Alas, one wave they shall ascend.
Each solitary yearns to shake another's hand, Each in her nebulae still rolls; One wave, alas, they never can ascend, Eternal solitaries - human souls.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# Solitaire

When night drifts along the streets of the city, And sifts down between the uneven roofs, My mind begins to peek and peer. It plays at ball in old, blue Chinese gardens, And shakes wrought dice-cups in Pagan temples, Amid the broken flutings of white pillars. It dances with purple and yellow crocuses in its hair, And its feet shine as they flutter over drenched grasses. How light and laughing my mind is, When all the good folk have put out their bed-room candles, And the city is still!
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 1925, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 98 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
# Songs of Travel and Other Verses/She rested by the Broken Brook

V
She rested by the Broken Brook She drank of Weary Well, She moved beyond my lingering look, Ah, whither none can tell!
She came, she went. In other lands, Perchance in fairer skies, Her hands shall cling with other hands, Her eyes to other eyes.
She vanished. In the sounding town, Will she remember too? Will she recall the eyes of brown As I recall the blue?