OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems and Ballads (Swinburne)/Erotion

EROTION.
Sweet for a little even to fear, and sweet, O love, to lay down fear at love's fair feet; Shall not some fiery memory of his breath Lie sweet on lips that touch the lips of death? Yet leave me not; yet, if thou wilt, be free; Love me no more, but love my love of thee. Love where thou wilt, and live thy life; and I, One thing I can, and one love cannot—die. Pass from me; yet thine arms, thine eyes, thine hair, Feed my desire and deaden my despair. Yet once more ere time change us, ere my cheek Whiten, ere hope be dumb or sorrow speak, Yet once more ere thou hate me, one full kiss; Keep other hours for others, save me this. Yea, and I will not (if it please thee) weep, Lest thou be sad; I will but sigh, and sleep. Sweet, does death hurt? thou canst not do me wrong: I shall not lack thee, as I loved thee, long. Hast thou not given me above all that live Joy, and a little sorrow shalt not give?
What even though fairer fingers of strange girls Pass nestling through thy beautiful boy's curls As mine did, or those curled lithe lips of thine Meet theirs as these, all theirs come after mine; And though I were not, though I be not, best, I have loved and love thee more than all the rest. O love, O lover, loose or hold me fast, I had thee first, whoever have thee last; Fairer or not, what need I know, what care? To thy fair bud my blossom once seemed fair. Why am I fair at all before thee, why At all desired? seeing thou art fair, not I. I shall be glad of thee, O fairest head, Alive, alone, without thee, with thee, dead; I shall remember while the light lives yet, And in the night-time I shall not forget. Though (as thou wilt) thou leave me ere life leave, I will not, for thy love I will not, grieve; Not as they use who love not more than I, Who love not as I love thee though I die; And though thy lips, once mine, be oftener prest To many another brow and balmier breast, And sweeter arms, or sweeter to thy mind, Lull thee or lure, more fond thou wilt not find.
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# Poems and Ballads (Swinburne)/Fragoletta

FRAGOLETTA.
O Love! what shall be said of thee?
The son of grief begot by joy?
Being sightless, wilt thou see?
Being sexless, wilt thou be
Maiden or boy?
I dreamed of strange lips yesterday
And cheeks wherein the ambiguous blood
Was like a rose's—yea,
A rose's when it lay
Within the bud.
What fields have bred thee, or what groves
Concealed thee, O mysterious flower,
O double rose of Love's,
With leaves that lure the doves
From bud to bower?
I dare not kiss it, lest my lip
Press harder than an indrawn breath,
And all the sweet life slip
Forth, and the sweet leaves drip,
Bloodlike, in death.
O sole desire of my delight! O sole delight of my desire! Mine eyelids and eyesight Feed on thee day and night Like lips of fire.
Lean back thy throat of carven pearl, Let thy mouth murmur like the dove's; Say, Venus hath no girl, No front of female curl, Among her Loves.
Thy sweet low bosom, thy close hair, Thy strait soft flanks and slenderer feet, Thy virginal strange air, Are these not over fair For Love to greet?
How should he greet thee? what new name, Fit to move all men's hearts, could move Thee, deaf to love or shame, Love's sister, by the same Mother as Love?
Ah sweet, the maiden's mouth is cold, Her breast-blossoms are simply red, Her hair mere brown or gold, Fold over simple fold Binding her head.
Thy mouth is made of fire and wine, Thy barren bosom takes my kiss And turns my soul to thine And turns thy lip to mine, And mine it is.
Thou hast a serpent in thine hair, In all the curls that close and cling; And ah, thy breast-flower! Ah love, thy mouth too fair To kiss and sting!
Cleave to me, love me, kiss mine eyes, Satiate thy lips with loving me; Nay, for thou shalt not rise; Lie still as Love that dies For love of thee.
Mine arms are close about thine head, My lips are fervent on thy face, And where my kiss hath fed Thy flower-like blood leaps red To the kissed place.
O bitterness of things too sweet! O broken singing of the dove Love's wings are over fleet, And like the panther's feet The feet of Love.
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# Poems and Ballads (Swinburne)/Hendecasyllabics

HENDECASYLLABICS.
In the month of the long decline of roses I, beholding the summer dead before me, Set my face to the sea and journeyed silent, Gazing eagerly where above the sea-mark Flame as fierce as the fervid eyes of lions Half divided the eyelids of the sunset; Till I heard as it were a noise of waters Moving tremulous under feet of angels Multitudinous, out of all the heavens; Knew the fluttering wind, the fluttered foliage, Shaken fitfully, full of sound and shadow; And saw, trodden upon by noiseless angels, Long mysterious reaches fed with moonlight, Sweet sad straits in a soft subsiding channel, Blown about by the lips of winds I knew not, Winds not born in the north nor any quarter, Winds not warm with the south nor any sunshine; Heard between them a voice of exultation, "Lo, the summer is dead, the sun is faded, Even like as a leaf the year is withered,
All the fruits of the day from all her branches Gathered, neither is any left to gather. All the flowers are dead, the tender blossoms, All are taken away; the season wasted, Like an ember among the fallen ashes. Now with light of the winter days, with moonlight, Light of snow, and the bitter light of hoarfrost, We bring flowers that fade not after autumn, Pale white chaplets and crowns of latter seasons, Fair false leaves (but the summer leaves were falser), Woven under the eyes of stars and planets When low light was upon the windy reaches Where the flower of foam was blown, a lily Dropt among the sonorous fruitless furrows And green fields of the sea that make no pasture: Since the winter begins, the weeping winter, All whose flowers are tears, and round his temples Iron blossom of frost is bound for ever."
# Poems and Ballads (Swinburne)/Hermaphroditus

HERMAPHRODITUS.
I.
Blind love that comes by night and casts out rest; Of all things tired thy lips look weariest, Save the long smile that they are wearied of. Ah sweet, albeit no love be sweet enough, Choose of two loves and cleave unto the best; Two loves at either blossom of thy breast Strive until one be under and one above. Their breath is fire upon the amorous air, Fire in thine eyes and where thy lips suspire: And whosoever hath seen thee, being so fair, Two things turn all his life and blood to fire; A strong desire begot on great despair, A great despair cast out by strong desire.
II.
With love like gold bound round about the head, Sex to sweet sex with lips and limbs is wed, Turning the fruitful feud of hers and his To the waste wedlock of a sterile kiss;
Yet from them something like as fire is shed That shall not be assuaged till death be dead, Though neither life nor sleep can find out this. Love made himself of flesh that perisheth A pleasure-house for all the loves his kin; But on the one side sat a man like death, And on the other a woman sat like sin. So with veiled eyes and sobs between his breath Love turned himself and would not enter in.
III.
That lies between thine eyelids and thine eyes? Like a flower laid upon a flower it lies, Or like the night's dew laid upon the night. Love stands upon thy left hand and thy right, Yet by no sunset and by no moonrise Shall make thee man and ease a woman's sighs, Or make thee woman for a man's delight. To what strange end hath some strange god made fair The double blossom of two fruitless flowers? Hid love in all the folds of all thy hair, Fed thee on summers, watered thee with showers, Given all the gold that all the seasons wear To thee that art a thing of barren hours?
IV.
Nay, sweet, it is not fear but love, I know; Or wherefore should thy body's blossom blow So sweetly, or thine eyelids leave so clear Thy gracious eyes that never made a tear— Though for their love our tears like blood should flow, Though love and life and death should come and go, So dreadful, so desirable, so dear? Yea, sweet, I know; I saw in what swift wise Beneath the woman's and the water's kiss Thy moist limbs melted into Salmacis, And the large light turned tender in thine eyes, And all thy boy's breath softened into sighs; But Love being blind, how should he know of this?
Au Musée du Louvre, Mars 1863.
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# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Meäd in June

THE MEÄD IN JUNE.
Ah! how the looks o’ sky an’ ground Do change wi’ months a-stealèn round, When northern winds, by starry night, Do stop in ice the river’s flight; Or brooks in winter raïns do zwell, Lik’ rollèn seas athirt the dell; Or trickle thin in zummer-tide; Among the mossy stwones half dried; But still, below the zun or moon, The feärest vield’s the meäd in June.
​An’ I must own, my heart do beät Wi’ pride avore my own blue geäte, Where I can bid the steätely tree Be cast, at langth, avore my knee; An’ clover red, an’ deäzies feaïr, An’ gil’cups wi’ their yollow gleäre, Be all a-match’d avore my zight By wheelèn buttervlees in flight, The while the burnèn zun at noon Do sheen upon my meäd in June.
An’ there do zing the swingèn lark So gaÿ’s above the finest park, An’ day do sheäde my trees as true As any steätely avenue; An’ show’ry clouds o’ Spring do pass To shed their raïn on my young grass, An’ aïr do blow the whole day long, To bring me breath, an’ teäke my zong, An’ I do miss noo needvul boon A-gi’ed to other meäds in June.
An’ when the bloomèn rwose do ride Upon the boughy hedge’s zide, We haymeäkers, in snow-white sleeves, Do work in sheädes o’ quiv’rèn leaves, In afternoon, a-liftèn high Our reäkes avore the viery sky, A-reäken up the haÿ a-dried By day, in lwongsome weäles, to bide In chilly dew below the moon, O’ shorten’d nights in zultry June.
An’ there the brook do softly flow Along, a-bendèn in a bow, ​An’ vish, wi’ zides o’ zilver-white, Do flash vrom shoals a dazzlèn light; An’ alders by the water’s edge, Do sheäde the ribbon-bleäded zedge, An’ where, below the withy’s head, The zwimmèn clote-leaves be a-spread, The angler is a-zot at noon Upon the flow’ry bank in June.
Vor all the aiër that do bring My little meäd the breath o’ Spring, By day an’ night’s a-flowèn wide Above all other vields bezide; Vor all the zun above my ground ’S a-zent vor all the naïghbours round, An’ rain do vall, an’ streams do flow, Vor lands above, an’ lands below, My bit o’ meäd is God’s own boon, To me alwone, vrom June to June.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Lovely Maïd ov Elwell Meäd

THE LOVELY MAÏD OV ELWELL MEÄD.
A maïd wi’ many gifts o’ greäce, A maïd wi’ ever-smilèn feäce, ​A child o’ yours my chilhood’s pleäce,  O leänèn lawns ov Allen; ’S a-walkèn where your stream do flow, A-blushèn where your flowers do blow, A-smilèn where your zun do glow,  O leänèn lawns ov Allen.  An’ good, however good’s a-waïgh’d,  ’S the lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.
An’ oh! if I could teäme an’ guide The winds above the e’th, an’ ride As light as shootèn stars do glide,  O leänèn lawns ov Allen, To you I’d teäke my daily flight, Drough dark’nèn aïr in evenèn’s light, An’ bid her every night “Good night,”  O leänèn lawns ov Allen.  Vor good, however good’s a-waïgh’d,  ’S the lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.
An’ when your hedges’ slooes be blue, By blackberries o’ dark’nèn hue, An’ spiders’ webs behung wi’ dew,  O leänèn lawns ov Allen, Avore the winter aïr’s a-chill’d, Avore your winter brook’s a-vill’d Avore your zummer flow’rs be kill’d,  O leänèn lawns ov Allen;  I there would meet, in white array’d,  The lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.
For when the zun, as birds do rise, Do cast their sheädes vrom autum’ skies, A-sparklèn in her dewy eyes,  O leänèn lawns ov Allen; ​Then all your mossy paths below The trees, wi’ leaves a-vallèn slow, Like zinkèn fleäkes o’ yollow snow,  O leänèn lawns ov Allen.  Would be mwore teäkèn where they straÿ’d  The lovely maïd ov Elwell Meäd.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Maïd vor my Bride

THE MAID VOR MY BRIDE.
Ah! don’t tell o’ maïdens! the woone vor my bride Is little lik’ too many maïdens bezide,— Not brantèn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she’ve a mind To think o’ what’s right, an’ a heart to be kind.
She’s straïght an’ she’s slender, but not over tall, Wi’ lim’s that be lightsome, but not over small; The goodness o’ heaven do breathe in her feäce, An’ a queen, to be steätely, must walk wi’ her peäce.
Her frocks be a-meäde all becomèn an’ plaïn, An’ clean as a blossom undimm’d by a staïn; Her bonnet ha’ got but two ribbons, a-tied Up under her chin, or let down at the zide.
When she do speak to woone, she don’t steäre an’ grin; There’s sense in her looks, vrom her eyes to her chin, An’ her words be so kind, an’ her speech is so meek, As her eyes do look down a-beginnèn to speak.
Her skin is so white as a lily, an’ each Ov her cheäks is so downy an’ red as a peach; She’s pretty a-zittèn; but oh! how my love Do watch her to madness when woonce she do move.
An’ when she do walk hwome vrom church drough the groun’, Wi’ woone eärm in mine, an’ wi’ woone a-hung down, I do think, an’ do veel mwore o’ sheäme than o’ pride, That do meäke me look ugly to walk by her zide.
Zoo don’t talk o’ maïden’s! the woone vor my bride Is but little lik’ too many maïdens bezide,— Not brantèn, nor spitevul, nor wild; she’ve a mind To think o’ what’s right, an’ a heart to be kind.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Milk-Maïd o' the Farm

THE MILK-MAID O’ THE FARM.
O Poll’s the milk-maïd o’ the farm!  An’ Poll’s so happy out in groun’, Wi’ her white pail below her eärm  As if she wore a goolden crown.
An’ Poll don’t zit up half the night,  Nor lie vor half the day a-bed; An’ zoo her eyes be sparklèn bright.  An’ zoo her cheäks be bloomèn red.
​In zummer mornèns, when the lark  Do rouse the litty lad an’ lass To work, then she’s the vu’st to mark  Her steps along the dewy grass.
An’ in the evenèn, when the zun  Do sheen ageän the western brows O’ hills, where bubblèn brooks do run,  There she do zing bezide her cows.
An’ ev’ry cow of hers do stand,  An’ never overzet her païl; Nor try to kick her nimble hand,  Nor switch her wi’ her heavy taïl.
Noo leädy, wi’ her muff an’ vaïl,  Do walk wi’ sich a steätely tread As she do, wi’ her milkèn païl  A-balanc’d on her comely head.
An’ she, at mornèn an’ at night.  Do skim the yollow cream, an’ mwold An’ wring her cheeses red an’ white,  An’ zee the butter vetch’d an’ roll’d.
An’ in the barken or the ground,  The chaps do always do their best To milk the vu’st their own cows round,  An’ then help her to milk the rest.
Zoo Poll’s the milk-maid o’ the farm!  An’ Poll’s so happy out in groun’, Wi’ her white païl below her eärm,  As if she wore a goolden crown.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Love Child

THE LOVE CHILD.
Where the bridge out at Woodley did stride,
 Wi’ his wide arches’ cool sheäded bow, Up above the clear brook that did slide  By the popples, befoam’d white as snow: As the gilcups did quiver among  The white deäisies, a-spread in a sheet. There a quick-trippèn maïd come along,—  Aye, a girl wi’ her light-steppèn veet.
An’ she cried “I do praÿ, is the road  Out to Lincham on here, by the meäd?” An’ “oh! ees,” I meäde answer, an’ show’d  Her the way it would turn an’ would leäd: “Goo along by the beech in the nook,  Where the childern do plaÿ in the cool, To the steppèn stwones over the brook,—  Aye, the grey blocks o’ rock at the pool.”
​“Then you don’t seem a-born an’ a-bred,”  I spoke up, “at a place here about;” An’ she answer’d wi’ cheäks up so red  As a pi’ny but leäte a-come out, “No, I liv’d wi’ my uncle that died  Back in Eäpril, an’ now I’m a-come Here to Ham, to my mother, to bide,—  Aye, to her house to vind a new hwome,”
I’m asheämed that I wanted to know  Any mwore of her childhood or life, But then, why should so feäir a child grow  Where noo father did bide wi’ his wife; Then wi’ blushes of zunrisèn morn,  She replied “that it midden be known, “Oh! they zent me awaÿ to be born,—  Aye, they hid me when zome would be shown.”
Oh! it meäde me a’most teary-ey’d,  An’ I vound I a’most could ha’ groan’d— What! so winnèn, an’ still cast a-zide—  What! so lovely, an’ not to be own’d; Oh! a God-gift a-treated wi’ scorn,  Oh! a child that a squier should own; An’ to zend her awaÿ to be born!—  Aye, to hide her where others be shown!
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Meäd a-mow'd

THE MEAD A-MOW’D.
When sheädes do vail into ev’ry hollow,  An’ reach vrom trees half athirt the groun’; An’ banks an’ walls be a-lookèn yollow,  That be a-turn’d to the zun gwaïn down;  Drough haÿ in cock, O,  We all do vlock, O,  Along our road vrom the meäd a-mow’d.
An’ when the last swaÿèn lwoad’s a-started  Up hill so slow to the lofty rick, Then we so weary but merry-hearted,  Do shoulder each ō’s a reäke an’ pick,  Wi’ empty flagon,  Behind the waggon,  To teäke our road vrom the meäd a-mow’d.
When church is out, an’ we all so slowly  About the knap be a-spreadèn wide. ​How gaÿ the paths be where we do strolly  Along the leäne an’ the hedge’s zide;  But nwone’s a voun’, O,  Up hill or down, O,  So gaÿ’s the road drough the meäd a-mow’d.
An’ when the visher do come, a-drowèn  His flutt’ren line over bleädy zedge, Drough groun’s wi’ red thissle-heads a-blowèn.  An’ watchèn o’t by the water’s edge;  Then he do love, O,  The best to rove, O,  Along his road drough the meäd a-mow’d.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Lydlinch Bells

LYDLINCH BELLS.
When skies wer peäle wi’ twinklèn stars, An’ whislèn aïr a-risèn keen; An’ birds did leäve the icy bars To vind, in woods, their mossy screen; When vrozen grass, so white’s a sheet, Did scrunchy sharp below our veet, An’ water, that did sparkle red At zunzet, wer a-vrozen dead; The ringers then did spend an hour A-ringèn changes up in tow’r; Vor Lydlinch bells be good vor sound, An’ liked by all the naïghbours round.
An’ while along the leafless boughs O’ ruslèn hedges, win’s did pass, An’ orts ov haÿ, a-left by cows, Did russle on the vrozen grass, An’ maïdens’ païls, wi’ all their work A-done, did hang upon their vurk, An’ they, avore the fleämèn brand, Did teäke their needle-work in hand, The men did cheer their heart an hour A-ringèn changes up in tow’r; ​Vor Lydlinch bells be good vor sound, An’ liked by all the naïghbours round.
There sons did pull the bells that rung Their mothers’ weddèn peals avore, The while their fathers led em young An’ blushèn vrom the churches door, An’ still did cheem, wi’ happy sound, As time did bring the Zundays round, An’ call em to the holy pleäce Vor heav’nly gifts o’ peace an’ greäce; An’ vo’k did come, a-streamèn slow Along below the trees in row, While they, in merry peals, did sound The bells vor all the naïghbours round.
An’ when the bells, wi’ changèn peal, Did smite their own vo’ks window-peänes, Their sof’en’d sound did often steal Wi’ west winds drough the Bagber leänes; Or, as the win’ did shift, mid goo Where woody Stock do nessle lew, Or where the risèn moon did light The walls o‘ Thornhill on the height; An’ zoo, whatever time mid bring To meäke their vive clear vaïces zing, Still Lydlinch bells wer good vor sound, An’ liked by all the naïghbours round.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The May-tree

THE MAY-TREE.
I’ve a-come by the Maÿ-tree all times o’ the year,  When leaves wer a-springèn,  When vrost wer a-stingèn, When cool-winded mornèn did show the hills clear, When night wer bedimmèn the vields vur an’ near.
When, in zummer, his head wer as white as a sheet,  Wi’ white buds a-zwellèn,  An’ blossom, sweet-smellèn, While leaves wi’ green leaves on his bough-zides did meet, A-sheädèn the deäisies down under our veet.
​When the zun, in the Fall, wer a-wanderèn wan,  An’ haws on his head  Did sprinkle en red, Or bright drops o’ rain wer a-hung loosely on, To the tips o’ the sprigs when the scud wer a-gone.
An’ when, in the winter, the zun did goo low,  An’ keen win’ did huffle,  But never could ruffle The hard vrozen feäce o’ the water below, His limbs wer a-fringed wi’ the vrost or the snow.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Maïd o' Newton

THE MAID O’ NEWTON.
In zummer, when the knaps wer bright In cool-aïr’d evenèn’s western light, An’ haÿ that had a-dried all day, Did now lie grey, to dewy night; I went, by happy chance, or doom, Vrom Broadwoak Hill, athirt to Coomb, An’ met a maïd in all her bloom:  The feaïrest maïd o’ Newton.
She bore a basket that did ride So light, she didden leän azide; Her feäce wer oval, an’ she smil’d So sweet’s a child, but walk’d wi’ pride. I spoke to her, but what I zaid I didden know; wi’ thoughts a-vled, I spoke by heart, an’ not by head,  Avore the maïd o’ Newton.
I call’d her, oh! I don’t know who, ’Twer by a neäme she never knew; An’ to the heel she stood upon, She then brought on her hinder shoe, An’ stopp’d avore me, where we met, An’ wi’ a smile woone can’t vorget, She zaid, wi’ eyes a-zwimmèn wet,  “No, I be woone o’ Newton.”
Then on I rambled to the west, Below the zunny hangèn’s breast, Where, down athirt the little stream, The brudge’s beam did lie at rest: But all the birds, wi’ lively glee, ​Did chirp an’ hop vrom tree to tree, As if it war vrom pride, to zee  Goo by the maïd o’ Newton.
By fancy led, at evenèn’s glow, I woonce did goo, a-rovèn slow, Down where the elèms, stem by stem, Do stan’ to hem the grove below; But after that, my veet vorzook The grove, to seek the little brook At Coomb, where I mid zometimes look,  To meet the maïd o’ Newton.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/The Little Worold

THE LITTLE WOROLD.
My hwome wer on the timber’d ground O’ Duncombe, wi’ the hills a-bound: Where vew from other peärts did come, An’ vew did travel vur from hwome, An’ small the worold I did know; But then, what had it to bestow But Fanny Deäne so good an’ feäir? ’Twer wide enough if she wer there.
In our deep hollow where the zun Did eärly leäve the smoky tun, An’ all the meäds a-growèn dim, Below the hill wi’ zunny rim; Oh! small the land the hills did bound, But there did walk upon the ground Young Fanny Deäne so good an’ feäir: ’Twer wide enough if she wer there.
O’ leäte upon the misty plaïn I stay’d vor shelter vrom the raïn, Where sharp-leav’d ashès’ heads did twist In hufflèn wind, an’ driftèn mist, ​An’ small the worold I could zee; But then it had below the tree My Fanny Deäne so good an’ feäir: ’Twer wide enough if she wer there.
An’ I’ve a house wi’ thatchen ridge, Below the elems by the bridge: Wi’ small-peän’d windows, that do look Upon a knap, an’ ramblèn brook; An’ small’s my house, my ruf is low, But then who mid it have to show But Fanny Deäne so good an’ feäir? ’Tis fine enough if peace is there.
# Piers Plowman

* related portals: Medieval poetry.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
Written c. 1370–1380, also known as Piers the Plowman, and Piers Ploughman
* Piers Plowman, excerpt selection in the Oxford Book of English Verse (1250-1918)
* The Vision and Creed of Piers Ploughman, as edited by Thomas Wright (1887)
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago. Translations or editions published later may be copyrighted.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Pierson v. Ray

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.

## Dissenting Opinion

    Douglas
United States Supreme Court
386 U.S. 547
Pierson v. Ray
Argued: Jan. 11, 1967. --- Decided: April 11, 1967
Carl Rachlin, New York City, for Robert L. Pierson and others.
Elizabeth W. Grayson, Jackson, Miss., for J. L. Ray and others.
Mr. Chief Justice WARREN delivered the opinion of Court.

## 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