OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Pictures in Rhyme/La Marquise de Pompadour

LA MARQUISE DE POMPADOUR
She was Madame de Pompadour,
I wore a George's hunting-dress
When we wandered aside for a short, sweet hour,
From the masked and whirling press.
Nooked in a cool recess we sat,
Whilst her tongue, like a bee from flower to flower,
First touched on this, and then on that—
Madame de Pompadour.
Many a laughing word was said
Ere a hush crept over that green alcove,
And the light tongue ceased, for another had strayed
Into the perilous paths of love.
At first our hands met, then our eyes,
And then our lips. Ah! that short, sweet hour
In which I won her, my life-set prize,
Madame de Pompadour.
​Won her, and wore her a week—no more;
But that week outweighs all years to me,
For she then was my Madame de Pompadour,
As she yet again will be.
Alas! in the shade of that dim recess,
Under the flickering Chinese lamp,
On that dainty head and powdered tress
Other lips set their stamp.
A chill neglected. One little week,
And beneath a ringing, indented stone
She slept, where incense and music seek
To mingle fragrance and tone.
Ashes to ashes, dust to dust—
Let the dead past bury its dead;
But I still hold my heart in trust,
# Pictures in Rhyme/Nor is Love Sold

NOR IS LOVE SOLD
'You've bought me with your gold,' she said, 'You've bought me with your gold; Upon this breast you lay your head; I would this breast were cold,' she said; 'I would this breast were cold In churchyard mould.'
'But O! I love him well,’ she said, 'But O! I love him well— So well I would that I were dead, And laid in narrow cell,' she said; 'And laid in narrow cell, For life is hell.'
'Bodies are bought for gold,' she said, 'Bodies are bought for gold; ​But hearts can not be forced to wed,
Though worlds grow grey and old,' she said; 'Though worlds grow grey and old— Nor is love sold.'
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Ash-boughs

Editor's Note
56
(Ash-boughs)
a.
Not of all my eyes see, wandering on the world, Is anything a milk to the mind so, so sighs deep Poetry to it, as a tree whose boughs break in the sky. Say it is ashboughs: whether on a December day and furled Fast ór they in clammyish lashtender combs creep Apart wide and new-nestle at heaven most high. They touch heaven, tabour on it; how their talons sweep The smouldering enormous winter welkin! May Mells blue and snowwhite through them, a fringe and fray Of greenery: it is old earth's groping towards the steep Heaven whom she childs us by.
b.
They touch, they tabour on it, hover on it[; here, there hurled], With talons sweep The smouldering enormous winter welkin. [Eye, But more cheer is when] May Mells blue with snowwhite through their fringe and fray Of greenery and old earth gropes for, grasps at steep Heaven with it whom she childs things by.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Cheery Beggar

Editor's Note
61
Cheery Beggar
Beyond Mágdalen and by the Bridge, on a place called there the Plain, In Summer, in a burst of summertime Following falls and falls of rain, When the air was sweet-and-sour of the flown fineflower of Those goldnails and their gaylinks that hang along a lime; ........ The motion of that man's heart is fine Whom want could not make píne, píne That struggling should not sear him, a gift should cheer him Like that poor pocket of pence, poor pence of mine. ........
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Denis, whose motionable, alert, most vaulting wit

Editor's Note
62
Denis, whose motionable, alert, most vaulting wit Caps occasion with an intellectual fit. Yet Arthur is a Bowman: his three-heeled timber 'll hit The bald and bóld blínking gold when áll 's dóne Right rooting in the bare butt's wincing navel in the sight of the sun. ........
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Duns Scotus's Oxford

Editor's Note
20
Duns Scotus's Oxford
Towery city and branchy between towers; Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmèd, lark-charmèd, rook-racked, river-rounded; The dapple-eared lily below thee; that country and town did Once encounter in, here coped and poisèd powers;
Thou hast a base and brickish skirt there, sours That neighbour-nature thy grey beauty is grounded Best in; graceless growth, thou hast confounded Rural rural keeping—folk, flocks, and flowers.
Yet ah! this air I gather and I release He lived on; these weeds and waters, these walls are what He haunted who of all men most sways my spirits to peace;
Of realty the rarest-veinèd unraveller; a not Rivalled insight, be rival Italy or Greece; Who fired France for Mary without spot.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Andromeda

Editor's Note
25
Andromeda
Now Time's Andromeda on this rock rude, With not her either beauty's equal or Her injury's, looks off by both horns of shore, Her flower, her piece of being, doomed dragon's food. Time past she has been attempted and pursued By many blows and banes; but now hears roar A wilder beast from West than all were, more Rife in her wrongs, more lawless, and more lewd.
Her Perseus linger and leave her tó her extremes?— Pillowy air he treads a time and hangs His thoughts on her, forsaken that she seems, All while her patience, morselled into pangs, Mounts; then to alight disarming, no one dreams, With Gorgon's gear and barebill, thongs and fangs.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/At the Wedding March

Editor's Note
28
At the Wedding March
God with honour hang your head, Groom, and grace you, bride, your bed With lissome scions, sweet scions, Out of hallowed bodies bred.
​Each be other's comfort kind: Déep, déeper than divined, Divine charity, dear charity, Fast you ever, fast bind.
Then let the March tread our ears: I to him turn with tears Who to wedlock, his wonder wedlock, Déals tríumph and immortal years.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Brothers

Editor's Note
30
Brothers
How lovely the elder brother's Life all laced in the other's, Lóve-laced!—what once I well Witnessed; so fortune fell. When Shrovetide, two years gone,5 Our boys' plays brought on Part was picked for John, Young Jóhn: then fear, then joy Ran revel in the elder boy. Their night was come now; all10 Our company thronged the hall; Henry, by the wall, Beckoned me beside him: I came where called, and eyed him By meanwhiles; making mý play15 Turn most on tender byplay. For, wrung all on love's rack, My lad, and lost in Jack, Smiled, blushed, and bit his lip; Or drove, with a diver's dip,20 Clutched hands down through clasped knees— Truth's tokens tricks like these, Old telltales, with what stress He hung on the imp's success. Now the other was bráss-bóld:25 Hé had no work to hold His heart up at the strain; Nay, roguish ran the vein. Two tedious acts were past; Jack's call and cue at last;30 When Henry, heart-forsook, Dropped eyes and dared not look. ​Eh, how áll rúng! Young dog, he did give tongue! But Harry—in his hands he has flung35 His tear-tricked cheeks of flame For fond love and for shame. Ah Nature, framed in fault, There 's comfort then, there 's salt; Nature, bad, base, and blind,40 Dearly thou canst be kind; There dearly thén, dearly, I'll cry thou canst be kind.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Carrion Comfort

Editor's Note
40
(Carrion Comfort)
Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee; Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can; Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be. But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan, O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?
​Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear. Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod, Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer. Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame

Editor's Note
34
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme; As tumbled over rim in roundy wells Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name; Each mortal thing does one thing and the same: Deals out that being indoors each one dwells; Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells, Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.
Í say móre: the just man justices; Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces; Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is— Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places, Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his To the Father through the features of men's faces.
# Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins/Binsey Poplars

Editor's Note
19
Binsey Poplars
felled 1879
My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled, Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun, All felled, felled, are all felled; Of a fresh and following folded rank Not spared, not one That dandled a sandalled Shadow that swam or sank On meadow and river and wind-wandering weed-winding bank.
O if we but knew what we do When we delve or hew— Hack and rack the growing green! Since country is so tender To touch, her being só slender, That, like this sleek and seeing ball But a prick will make no eye at all, Where we, even where we mean To mend her we end her, When we hew or delve: After-comers cannot guess the beauty been. Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve Strokes of havoc unselve The sweet especial scene, Rural scene, a rural scene, Sweet especial rural scene.
# Poems (Toke)/Psalm XXVIII

October 11, 1832.
# Poems (Toke)/Psalm XVI

October 10, 1833.
# Poems (Toke)/Psalm XXVII

October 6, 1833.
# Poems (Toke)/Saint Barnabas's day

J. AND W. RIDER, PRINTERS, LONDON.
# Poems (Toke)/Psalm XLVI

January 19, 1834,
# Poems (Toke)/Psalm XX

October 1, 1832.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Seats

SEATS.
When starbright maïdens be to zit  In silken frocks, that they do wear, The room mid have, as ’tis but fit,  A han’some seat vor vo’k so feäir; But we, in zun-dried vield an’ wood,  Ha’ seats as good’s a goolden chair.
​Vor here, ’ithin the woody drong,  A ribbèd elem-stem do lie, A-vell’d in Spring, an’ stratch’d along  A bed o’ grægles up knee-high, A sheädy seat to rest, an’ let  The burnèn het o’ noon goo by.
Or if you’d look, wi’ wider scope,  Out where the gray-tree’d plaïn do spread, The ash bezide the zunny slope,  Do sheäde a cool-aïr’d deäisy bed, An’ grassy seat, wi’ spreadèn eaves  O’ rus’lèn leaves, above your head.
An’ there the traïn mid come in zight,  Too vur to hear a-rollèn by, A-breathèn quick, in heästy flight,  His breath o’ tweil, avore the sky, The while the waggon, wi’ his lwoad,  Do crawl the rwoad a-windèn nigh.
Or now theäse happy holiday  Do let vo’k rest their weary lim’s, An’ lwoaded haÿ’s a-hangèn gray,  Above the waggon-wheels’ dry rims, The meäd ha’ seats in weäles or pooks,  By windèn brooks, wi’ crumblèn brims.
Or if you’d gi’e your thoughtvul mind  To yonder long-vorseäken hall, Then teäke a stwonèn seat behind  The ivy on the broken wall, An’ learn how e’thly wealth an’ might  Mid dim’ their height, an’ then mid vall.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Shaftesbury Feäir

SHAFTESBURY FEÄIR.
When hillborne Paladore did show So bright to me down miles below, As woonce the zun, a-rollèn west, Did brighten up his hill’s high breast. Wi’ walls a-lookèn dazzlèn white, Or yollow, on the grey-topp’d height Of Paladore, as peäle day wore  Awaÿ so feäir. Oh! how I wish’d that I wer there.
The pleäce wer too vur off to spy The livèn vo’k a-passèn by; The vo’k too vur vor aïr to bring The words that they did speak or zing. All dum’ to me wer each abode, An’ empty wer the down-hill road Vrom Paladore, as peäle day wore  Awaÿ so feäir; But how I wish’d that I wer there.
But when I clomb the lofty ground Where livèn veet an’ tongues did sound, ​At feäir, bezide your bloomèn feäce, The pertiest in all the pleäce, As you did look, wi’ eyes as blue As yonder southern hills in view, Vrom Paladore—O Polly dear,  Wi’ you up there, How merry then wer I at feäir.
Since vu’st I trod thik steep hill-zide My grievèn soul ’v a-been a-tried Wi’ païn, an’ loss o’ worldly geär, An’ souls a-gone I wanted near; But you be here to goo up still, An’ look to Blackmwore vrom the hill O’ Paladore. Zoo, Polly dear.  We’ll goo up there, An’ spend an hour or two at feäir.
The wold brown meäre’s a-brought vrom grass, An’ rubb’d an’ cwomb’d so bright as glass; An’ now we’ll hitch her in, an’ start To feäir upon the new green cart, An’ teäke our little Poll between Our zides, as proud’s a little queen, To Paladore. Aye, Poll a dear,  Vor now ’tis feäir, An’ she’s a-longèn to goo there.
While Paladore, on watch, do straïn Her eyes to Blackmwore’s blue-hill’d pläin, While Duncliffe is the traveller’s mark, Or cloty Stour’s a-rollèn dark; Or while our bells do call, vor greäce, The vo’k avore their Seävior’s feäce, Mid Paladore, an’ Poll a dear,  Vor ever know O’ peäce an’ plenty down below.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Shrodon Feäir:—The rest o't

SHRODON FEÄR.
The rest o’t.
An’ after that we met wi’ zome O’ Mans’on vo’k, but jist a-come, An’ had a raffle vor a treat All roun’, o’ gingerbread to eat; An’ Tom meäde leäst, wi’ all his sheäkes, An’ paid the money vor the ceäkes, But wer so lwoth to put it down As if a penny wer a poun’. ​Then up come zidelèn Sammy Heäre, That’s fond o’ Poll, an’ she can’t bear, A-holdèn out his girt scram vist, An’ ax’d her, wi’ a grin an’ twist, To have zome nuts; an’ she, to hide Her laughèn, turn’d her head azide, An’ answer’d that she’d rather not, But Nancy mid. Am’ Nan, so hot As vier, zaid ’twer quite enough Vor Poll to answer vor herzuf: She had a tongue, she zaid, an’ wit Enough to use en, when ’twer fit. An’ in the dusk, a-ridèn round Drough Okford, who d’ye think we vound But Sam ageän, a-gwäin vrom feäir Astride his broken-winded meäre. An’ zoo, a-hettèn her, he tried To keep up clwose by ouer zide: But when we come to Haÿward-brudge, Our Poll gi’ed Dick a meänèn nudge, An’ wi’ a little twitch our meäre Flung out her lags so lights a heäre, An’ left poor Sammy’s skin an’ bwones Behind, a-kickèn o’ the stwones.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Shrodon Feäir:—The vu'st Peärt

SHRODON FEÄIR.
The vu’st Peärt.
An’ zoo’s the day wer warm an’ bright, An’ nar a cloud wer up in zight, We wheedled father vor the meäre An’ cart, to goo to Shrodon feäir. An’ Poll an’ Nan run off up stairs, To shift their things, as wild as heäres; An’ pull’d out, each o’m vrom her box, Their snow-white leäce an’ newest frocks, An’ put their bonnets on, a-lined Wi’ blue, an’ sashes tied behind; An’ turn’d avore the glass their feäce An’ back, to zee their things in pleäce; While Dick an’ I did brush our hats An’ cwoats, an’ cleän ourzelves lik’ cats. At woone or two o’clock, we vound Ourzelves at Shrodon seäfe an’ sound, A-struttèn in among the rows O’ tilted stannèns an’ o’ shows, An’ girt long booths wi’ little bars Chock-vull o’ barrels, mugs, an’ jars, An’ meat a-cookèn out avore The vier at the upper door; ​Where zellers bwold to buyers shy Did hollow round us, “What d’ye buy?” An’ scores o’ merry tongues did speak At woonce, an’ childern’s pipes did squeak, An’ horns did blow, an’ drums did rumble, An’ bawlèn merrymen did tumble; An’ woone did all but want an edge To peärt the crowd wi’, lik’ a wedge.
We zaw the dancers in a show Dance up an’ down, an’ to an’ fro, Upon a rwope, wi’ chalky zoles, So light as magpies up on poles; An’ tumblers, wi’ their streaks an’ spots, That all but tied theirzelves in knots. An’ then a conjurer burn’d off Poll’s han’kerchief so black’s a snoff, An’ het en, wi’ a single blow, Right back ageän so white as snow. An’ after that, he fried a fat Girt ceäke inzide o’ my new hat; An’ yet, vor all he did en brown, He didden even zweal the crown.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Ridèn Hwome at Night

RIDEN HWOME AT NIGHT.
Oh! no, I quite injaÿ’d the ride  Behind wold Dobbin’s heavy heels, Wi’ Jeäne a-prattlèn at my zide,  Above our peäir o’ spinnèn wheels, As grey-rin’d ashes’ swaÿèn tops Did creak in moonlight in the copse, Above the quiv’rèn grass, a-beät By wind a-blowèn drough the geät.
If weary souls did want their sleep,  They had a-zent vor sleep the night; Vor vo’k that had a call to keep  Awake, lik’ us, there still wer light. An’ He that shut the sleepers’ eyes, A-waïtèn vor the zun to rise, Ha’ too much love to let em know The ling’rèn night did goo so slow.
But if my wife did catch a zight  O’ zome queer pollard, or a post, Poor soul! she took en in her fright  To be a robber or a ghost. A two-stump’d withy, wi’ a head, Mus’ be a man wi’ eärms a-spread; An’ foam o’ water, round a rock, Wer then a drownèn leädy’s frock.
Zome staddle stwones to bear a mow,  Wer dancèn veäries on the lag; An’ then a snow-white sheeted cow  Could only be, she thought, their flag, ​An owl a-vleèn drough the wood Wer men on watch vor little good; An’ geätes a slam’d by wind, did goo, She thought, to let a robber drough.
But after all, she lik’d the zight  O’ cows asleep in glitt’r`rn dew; An’ brooks that gleam’d below the light,  An’ dim vield paths ’ithout a shoe. An’ gaïly talk’d bezide my ears, A-laughèn off her needless fears: Or had the childern uppermost In mind, instead o’ thief or ghost.
An’ when our house, wi’ open door,  Did rumble hollow round our heads, She heästen’d up to tother vloor,  To zee the childern in their beds; An’ vound woone little head awry, Wi’ woone a-turn’d toward the sky; An’ wrung her hands ageän her breast, A-smilèn at their happy rest.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Sheädes

SHEÄDES.
Come here an’ zit a while below  Theäse tower, grey and ivy-bound, In sheäde, the while the zun do glow  So hot upon the flow’ry ground;  An’ winds in flight,  Do briskly smite The blossoms bright, upon the gleäde, But never stir the sleepèn sheäde.
As when you stood upon the brink  O’ yonder brook, wi’ back-zunn’d head, Your zunny-grounded sheäde did zink  Upon the water’s grav’lly bed,  Where weäves could zweep  Away, or keep, The gravel heap that they’d a-meäde, But never wash awaÿ the sheäde.
An’ zoo, when you can woonce vulvil  What’s feäir, a-tried by heaven’s light, Why never fear that evil will  Can meäke a wrong o’ your good right.  The right wull stand,  Vor all man’s hand, Till streams on zand, an’ wind in gleädes, Can zweep awaÿ the zuncast sheädes.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Rivers don't gi'e out

RIVERS DON’T GI’E OUT.
The brook I left below the rank Ov alders that do sheäde his bank, A-runnèn down to dreve the mill Below the knap, ’s a runnèn still; The creepèn days an’ weeks do vill  Up years, an’ meäke wold things o’ new,  An’ vok’ do come, an’ live, an’ goo,  But rivers don’t gi’e out, John.
The leaves that in the spring do shoot Zo green, in fall be under voot; Maÿ flow’rs do grow vor June to burn. An’ milk-white blooth o’ trees do kern, An’ ripen on, an’ vall in turn;  The miller’s moss-green wheel mid rot,  An’ he mid die an’ be vorgot,  But rivers don’t gi’e out, John.
A vew short years do bring an’ rear A maid—as Jeäne wer—young an’ feäir, An’ vewer zummer-ribbons, tied In Zunday knots, do feäde bezide Her cheäk avore her bloom ha’ died:  Her youth won’t staÿ,—her rwosy look  ’S a feädèn flow’r, but time’s a brook  To run an’ not gi’e out, John.
An’ yet, while things do come an’ goo, God’s love is steadvast, John, an’ true; If winter vrost do chill the ground, ’Tis but to bring the zummer round. All’s well a-lost where He’s a-vound, ​ Vor if ’tis right, vor Christes seäke  He’ll gi’e us mwore than he do teäke,—  His goodness don’t gi’e out, John.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Ruth a-ridèn

RUTH A-RIDÈN.
Ov all the roads that ever bridge  Did bear athirt a river’s feäce, Or ho’ses up an’ down the ridge  Did wear to doust at ev’ry peäce, I’ll teäke the Stalton leäne to tread, By banks wi’ primrwose-beds bespread, An’ steätely elems over head,  Where Ruth do come a-ridèn.
An’ I would rise when vields be grey  Wi’ mornèn dew, avore ’tis dry, An’ beat the doust droughout the day  To bluest hills ov all the sky; ​If there, avore the dusk o’ night, The evenèn zup, a-sheenèn bright, Would paÿ my leäbors wi’ the zight  O’ Ruth—o’ Ruth a-ridèn.
Her healthy feäce is rwosy feäir,  She’s comely in her gaït an’ lim’, An’ sweet’s the smile her feäce do wear,  Below her cap’s well-rounded brim; An’ while her skirt’s a-spreädèn wide, In vwolds upon the ho’se’s zide, He’ll toss his head, an’ snort wi’ pride,  To trot wi’ Ruth a-ridèn.
An’ as her ho’se’s rottlèn peäce  Do slacken till his veet do beät A slower trot, an’ till her feäce  Do bloom avore the tollman’s geäte; Oh! he’d be glad to oben wide His high-back’d geäte, an’ stand azide, A-givèn up his toll wi’ pride,  Vor zight o’ Ruth a-ridèn.
An’ oh! that Ruth could be my bride,  An’ I had ho’ses at my will, That I mid teäke her by my zide,  A-ridèn over dell an’ hill; I’d zet wi’ pride her litty tooe ’Ithin a stirrup, sheenèn new, An’ leäve all other jaÿs to goo  Along wi’ Ruth a-ridèn.
If maïdens that be weak an’ peäle  A-mwopèn in the house’s sheäde, Would wish to be so blithe and heäle  As you did zee young Ruth a-meäde; ​Then, though the zummer zun mid glow, Or though the Winter win’ mid blow, They’d leäp upon the saddle’s bow,  An’ goo, lik’ Ruth, a-ridèn.
While evenèn light do sof’ly gild  The moss upon the elem’s bark, Avore the zingèn bird’s a-still’d.  Or woods be dim, or day is dark, Wi’ quiv’rèn grass avore his breast, In cowslip beds, do lie at rest, The ho’se that now do goo the best  Wi’ rwosy Ruth a-ridèn.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Sleep did come wi' the Dew

SLEEP DID COME WI’ THE DEW.
O when our zun’s a-zinkèn low, How soft’s the light his feäce do drow Upon the backward road our mind Do turn an’ zee a-left behind; When we, in childhood’s days did vind Our jaÿ among the gil’cup flow’rs, All drough the zummer’s zunny hours;  An’ sleep did come wi’ the dew.
​An’ afterwards, when we did zweat A tweilèn in the zummer het, An’ when our daily work wer done Did meet to have our evenèn fun: Till up above the zettèn zun The sky wer blushèn in the west, An’ we laid down in peace to rest,  An’ sleep did come wi’ the dew.
Ah! zome do turn—but tidden right— The night to day, an’ day to night; But we do zee the vu’st red streak O’ mornèn, when the day do break; Zoo we don’t grow up peäle an’ weak, But we do work wi’ health an’ strength, Vrom mornèn drough the whole day’s length,  An’ sleep do come wi’ the dew.
An’ when, at last, our e’thly light Is jist a-drawèn in to night, We mid be sure that God above, If we be true when he do prove Our stedvast faïth an’ thankvul love, Wull do vor us what mid be best, An’ teäke us into endless rest,  As sleep do come wi’ the dew.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/He put the belt around my life

XIV
HE put the belt around my life, — I heard the buckle snap, And turned away, imperial, My lifetime folding up Deliberate, as a duke would do A kingdom's title-deed, — Henceforth a dedicated sort, A member of the cloud.
Yet not too far to come at call, And do the little toils That make the circuit of the rest, And deal occasional smiles To lives that stoop to notice mine And kindly ask it in, — Whose invitation, knew you not For whom I must decline?
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Hunger

L.
HUNGER.
I HAD been hungry all the years; My noon had come, to dine; I, trembling, drew the table near, And touched the curious wine.
'T was this on tables I had seen, When turning, hungry, lone, I looked in windows, for the wealth I could not hope to own.
I did not know the ample bread, 'T was so unlike the crumb The birds and I had often shared In Nature's dining-room.
The plenty hurt me, 't was so new,— Myself felt ill and odd, As berry of a mountain bush Transplanted to the road.
Nor was I hungry; so I found That hunger was a way Of persons outside windows, The entering takes away.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/I found the phrase to every thought

V.
I FOUND the phrase to every thought
I ever had, but one;
And that defies me,—as a hand
Did try to chalk the sun
To races nurtured in the dark;—
How would your own begin?
Can blaze be done in cochineal,
Or noon in mazarin?