OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/What John wer a-tellèn

WHAT JOHN WER A-TELLÈN HIS MIS’ESS OUT IN THE CORN GROUND.
Ah! mam! you woonce come here the while  The zun, long years agoo, did shed His het upon the wheat in hile,  Wi’ yollow hau’m an’ ears o’ red, Wi’ little shoes too thin vor walks  Upon the scratchèn stubble-stalks; You hardly reach’d wi’ glossy head,  The vore wheel’s top o’ dousty red. How time’s a-vled! How years do vlee!
An’ there you went an’ zot inzide  A hile, in aïr a-streamèn cool, As if ’ithin a room, vull wide  An’ high, you zot to guide an’ rule. You leäz’d about the stubbly land.  An’ soon vill’d up your small left hand Wi’ ruddy ears your right hand vound,  An’ traïl’d the stalks along the ground. How time’s a-gone! How years do goo!
Then in the waggon you did teäke  A ride, an’ as the wheels vell down Vrom ridge to vurrow, they did sheäke  On your small head your poppy crown, An’ now your little maïd, a dear,  Your childhood’s very daps, is here, Zoo let her staÿ, that her young feäce  Mid put a former year in pleäce. How time do run! How years do roll
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Vields in the Light

VIELDS IN THE LIGHT.
Woone’s heart mid leäp wi’ thoughts o’ jaÿ In comèn manhood light an’ gaÿ When we do teäke the worold on Vrom our vore-elders dead an’ gone; ​But days so feäir in hope’s bright eyes Do often come wi’ zunless skies: Woone’s fancy can but be out-done, Where trees do swaÿ an’ brooks do run, By risèn moon or zettèn zun.
Vor when at evenèn I do look All down theäse hangèn on the brook, Wi’ weäves a-leäpèn clear an’ bright, Where boughs do swaÿ in yollow light; Noo hills nor hollows, woods nor streams, A-voun’ by daÿ or zeed in dreams, Can ever seem so fit to be Good angel’s hwomes, though they do gi’e But païn an’ tweil to such as we.
An’ when by moonlight darksome sheädes Do lie in grass wi’ dewy bleädes, An’ worold-hushèn night do keep The proud an’ angry vast asleep, When I can think, as I do rove, Ov only souls that I do love; Then who can dream a dream to show, Or who can think o’ moons to drow, A sweeter light to rove below?
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Vo'k a-comèn into Church

VO’K A-COMÈN INTO CHURCH.
The church do zeem a touchèn zight,  When vo’k, a-comèn in at door,  Do softly tread the long-aïl’d vloor Below the pillar’d arches’ height,  Wi’ bells a-pealèn,  Vo’k a-kneelèn, Hearts a-healèn, wi’ the love An’ peäce a-zent em vrom above.
An’ there, wi’ mild an’ thoughtvul feäce,  Wi’ downcast eyes, an’ vaïces dum’,  The wold an’ young do slowly come, An’ teäke in stillness each his pleäce,  A-zinkèn slowly,  Kneelèn lowly, Seekèn holy thoughts alwone, In praÿ'r avore their Meäker’s throne.
​An’ there be sons in youthvul pride,  An’ fathers weak wi’ years an’ païn,  An’ daughters in their mother’s traïn, The tall wi’ smaller at their zide;  Heads in murnèn  Never turnèn, Cheäks a-burnèn, wi’ the het O’ youth, an’ eyes noo tears do wet.
There friends do settle, zide by zide,  The knower speechless to the known;  Their vaïce is there vor God alwone To flesh an’ blood their tongues be tied.  Grief a-wringèn,  Jaÿ a-zingèn, Pray’r a-bringèn welcome rest So softly to the troubled breast.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Week's End in Zummer, in the Wold Vo'k's Time

WEEK’S END IN ZUMMER, IN THE WOLD VO’K’S TIME.
His aunt an’ uncle,—ah! the kind Wold souls be often in my mind: A better couple never stood In shoes, an’ vew be voun’ so good. She cheer’d the work-vo’k in their tweils Wi’ timely bits an’ draps, an’ smiles; An’ he païd all o’m at week’s end, Their money down to goo an’ spend.
In zummer, when week’s end come roun’ The haÿ-meäkers did come vrom groun’, An’ all zit down, wi’ weary bwones, Within the yard a-peäved wi’ stwones, Along avore the peäles, between The yard a-steän’d an’ open green. There women zot wi’ bare-neck’d chaps, An’ maïdens wi’ their sleeves an’ flaps To screen vrom het their eärms an’ polls, An’ men wi’ beards so black as coals: ​Girt stocky Jim, an’ lanky John, An’ poor wold Betty dead an’ gone; An’ cleän-grown Tom so spry an’ strong, An’ Liz the best to pitch a zong, That now ha’ nearly half a score O’ childem zwarmèn at her door; An’ whindlen Ann, that cried wi’ fear To hear the thunder when ’twer near,— A zickly maïd, so peäle’s the moon, That voun’ her zun goo down at noon; An’ blushèn Jeäne so shy an’ meek, That seldom let us hear her speak, That wer a-coorted an’ undone By Farmer Woodley’s woldest son; An’ after she’d a-been vorzook, Wer voun’ a-drown’d in Longmeäd brook.
An’ zoo, when he’d a-been all roun’, An’ paid em all their wages down, She us’d to bring vor all, by teäle A cup o’ cider or ov eäle, An’ then a tutty meäde o’ lots O’ blossoms vrom her flower-nots, To wear in bands an’ button-holes At church, an’ in their evenèn strolls. The pea that rangled to the oves, An’ columbines an’ pinks an’ cloves,
Sweet rwosen vrom the prickly tree, An’ jilliflow’rs, an’ jessamy; An’ short-liv’d pinies, that do shed Their leaves upon a early bed She didden put in honeyzuck: She’d nwone, she zaid, that she could pluck Avore wild honeyzucks, a-vound In ev’ry hedge ov ev’ry ground. ​Zoo maïd an’ woman, bwoy an’ man, Went off, while zunzet aïr did fan Their merry zunburnt feäzen; zome
Down leäne, an’ zome drough parrocks hwome.
Ah! who can tell, that ha’nt a-vound, The sweets o’ week’s-end comèn round! When Zadurday do bring woone’s mind Sweet thoughts o’ Zunday clwose behind; The day that’s all our own to spend Wi’ God an’ wi’ an e’thly friend. The worold’s girt vo’k, wi’ the best O’ wordly goods mid be a-blest; But Zunday is the poor man’s peärt, To seäve his soul an’ cheer his heart
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Delight becomes pictorial

XIX.
DELIGHT becomes pictorial
When viewed through pain, — More fair, because impossible
That any gain.
The mountain at a given distance
In amber lies;
Approached, the amber flits a little, — And that's the skies!
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Enough

XXVII.
ENOUGH.
GOD gave a loaf to every bird, But just a crumb to me; I dare not eat it, though I starve, — My poignant luxury To own it, touch it, prove the feat That made the pellet mine, — Too happy in my sparrow chance For ampler coveting.
It might be famine all around, I could not miss an ear, Such plenty smiles upon my board, My garner shows so fair. I wonder how the rich may feel, — An Indiaman — an Earl? I deem that I with but a crumb Am sovereign of them all.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Epitaph

​POEMS. 185
                IV.
          EPITAPH.
STEP lightly on this narrow spot!
The broadest land that grows
Is not so ample as the breast
These emerald seams enclose.
Step lofty; for this name is told
As far as cannon dwell,
Or flag subsist, or fame export
Her deathless syllable.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Escape

X.
ESCAPE.
INEVER hear the word "escape" Without a quicker blood, A sudden expectation, A flying attitude.
I never hear of prisons broad By soldiers battered down, But I tug childish at my bars,— Only to fail again!
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Compensation

XI. COMPENSATION.
FOR each ecstatic instant We must an anguish pay
In keen and quivering ratio
To the ecstasy.
For each beloved hour
Sharp pittances of years,
Bitter contested farthings
And coffers heaped with tears.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Deed

XLI.
DEED.
A DEED knocks first at thought, And then it knocks at will. That is the manufacturing spot, And will at home and well.
It then goes out an act, Or is entombed so still That only to the ear of God Its doom is audible.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Essential oils are wrung

XXV.
ESSENTIAL oils are wrung: The attar from the rose Is not expressed by suns alone, It is the gift of screws.
The general rose decays; But this, in lady's drawer, Makes summer when the lady lies
In ceaseless rosemary.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Except the heaven had come so near

XXXI.
EXCEPT the heaven had come so near, So seemed to choose my door, The distance would not haunt me so; I had not hoped before.
But just to hear the grace depart I never thought to see, Afflicts me with a double loss; 'T is lost, and lost to me.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Day's Parlor

IV.
DAY'S PARLOR.
THE day came slow, till five o'clock,
Then sprang before the hills Like hindered rubies, or the light A sudden musket spills.
The purple could not keep the east, The sunrise shook from fold, Like breadths of topaz, packed a night, The lady just unrolled.
The happy winds their timbrels took; The birds, in docile rows, Arranged themselves around their prince (The wind is prince of those).
The orchard sparkled like a Jew,— How mighty 't was, to stay A guest in this stupendous place, The parlor of the day!
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Experiment to me

XXIII.
EXPERIMENT to me Is every one I meet. If it contain a kernel? The figure of a nut
Presents upon a tree, Equally plausibly; But meat within is requisite, To squirrels and to me.
# Poems of Patriotism/When the Drums Shall Cease To Beat

When the Drums Shall Cease To Beat
When will the laughter ring again in the way that it used to do? Not till the soldiers come home again, not till the war is through. When will the holly gleam again and the Christmas candles burn? Not till the swords are sheathed once more and the brave of our land return.
When will happy hearts meet again in the lights of the Christmas tree? Not till the cannons cease their roar and the sailors come from sea. When shall we sing as we used to do and dance in the old-time way? Not till the soldiers come home again and the bugles cease to play.
Oh, dull is the red of the holly now and faintly the candles burn; And we long for the smile of the missing face and the absent one’s return.
We long for the laughter we used to know and the love that made giving sweet, But we must wait for the joys of old till the drums shall cease to beat.
We shall laugh once more as we used to do, and dance in the old-time way, For this is the pledge they have made to us who serve in the war today; And the joys of home that we treasure so are the joys that their lives defend, And they shall give us our Christmas time as soon as the war shall end.
# Poems of Patriotism/Your Country Needs You

Your Country Needs You
The country needs a man like you, It has a task for you to do. It has a job for you to face. Somewhere for you it has a place. Not all the slackers dodge the work Of service where the cannon lurk, Not all the slackers on life’s stage Are boys of military age. The old, the youthful, and unfit Must also do their little bit.
The country needs a man like you, ’Twill suffer if you prove untrue. What though you cannot bear a gun? That isn’t all that’s to be done. There are a thousand other ways To serve your country through the days Of trial and the nights of storm. You need not wear a uniform Or with the men in council sit To serve the flag and do your bit.
Somewhere for you there is a place, Somewhere you have a task to face. There’s none so helpless or so frail That cannot, when our foes assail, In some way help our common cause And be deserving of applause. Behind the flag we all must be, Each at his post, awake to see That in so far as he has striven, His best was to his country given.
You can be patient, brave, and strong, And not complain when plans go wrong;
You can be cheerful at your toil, Or till, perhaps, some patch of soil; You can encourage others who Have heavier, greater tasks to do; You can be loyal, not in creed Alone, but in each thought and deed; You can make sacrifices, too. The country needs a man like you.
# Poems of Peace/Are you Searching?

ARE YOU SEARCHING?
Are you searching for the happiness that does not fade away? Are you looking for the joy that lives, and leaves no grievous day? Are you panting for the waterbrooks of Love, and Life, and Peace?
Then let all dark desires depart, and selfish seeking cease.
Are you ling’ring in the paths of pain, grief-haunted, stricken sore? Are you wand’ring in the ways that wound your weary feet the more? Are you sighing for the Resting-Place where tears and sorrows cease? Then sacrifice the heart of self, and find the Heart of Peace.
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# Poems of Peace/Art thou in Sorrow?

ART THOU IN SORROW?
Art thou in sorrow? Art thou in despair, Involved in doubt and deep perplexity? Leave thou thyself, and with thy fellows share The good thou hast, and thou wilt blessèd be.
Let Love’s bright sunshine play upon your heart; Come now unto your gladness, peace, and rest; Bid the dark shades of selfishness depart, And now and evermore be truly blest.
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# Poems of Peace/I take Refuge in Truth

I TAKE REFUGE IN TRUTH
I come to thee, O Master! on thy breast I lay my weary head; I lave thy feet With tears and kisses, travail of my quest; I bring my aching heart and sore defeat, And seek thy holy joy and perfect rest.
Place thou thy hand upon my burning brow; Soothe thou my soul, and bid my sins depart; I ask thy sweet salvation even now; Thy rest I seek to ease my throbbing heart; Thou art the Truth, to thee I cling and bow.
Thou changest not amid Earth’s changing scenes; All worldly joys, strong passions that decay, The sordid thought, the action that demeans, These are not thee, and they will pass away: On thy abiding strength my spirit leans.
Lead thou my feet unto thy Holy Place; I take thy chastening; thy great love I see; Thy rod I kiss, and in my deep disgrace, With longing, humble heart I cling to thee, Knowing thou wilt not turn away thy face.
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# Poems of Peace/Choice

CHOICE
The will to evil and the will to Good Are both within thee; which wilt thou employ? Thou knowest what is right and what is wrong; Which wilt thou love and foster? which destroy?
Thou art the chooser of thy thoughts and deeds; Thou art the maker of thine inward state; The power is thine to be what thou wilt be; Thou buildest Truth and Love, or lies and hate.
If thou dost choose the evil, loving self, Thy cries and prayers for Good shall all be vain; Thy thought and act bringeth thee good or ill; Deep in thy heart thou makest joy and pain.
As thou pursuest Good, striving to make Evil depart, thou shalt rejoice and say,—
“Lo! Light and Love and Peace attend on me; Truth fadeth not, and Good abounds alway.”
Choose as thou wilt thy thoughts and words and deeds, And as thou choosest so shall be thy life; The will to Good shall bring thee Joy and Peace, The will to evil, wretchedness and strife.
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# Poems of Patriotism/We’ve Had a Letter from the Boy

We’ve Had a Letter from the Boy
We’ve had a letter from the boy, And, oh, the gladness and the joy It brought to us! We read it o’er I’d say a dozen times or more. We laughed until the teardrops fell At all the fun he had to tell. He’s in the navy, wearing blue, And everything is all so new That he can see in youthful style The funny things to make us smile.
He’s working hard! Between the lines We gather that. The brass he shines Without complaining, and the food He gets to eat is very crude. And yet he laughs at all his chores. He says the maid who scrubs our floors Will have to quit when he returns Unless a better way she learns. “I’ve got it on the fairer sex,” Says he, “since I am swabbing decks.”
“A sailor’s life, dear Mom,” writes he, “Is not the life you picked for me. And yet I’m getting fat and strong And learning as I go along That any life a man can find Is apt to grow to be a grind Unless a fellow has the wit To see the brighter side of it. Don’t worry for your sailor son; He sleeps well when his work is done.”
We’ve had a letter from the boy, And, oh, the gladness and the joy It brought to us! ’Twas good to know
That he is facing duty so. Between the lines that he had penned His mother’s bitter fears to end, I saw his manhood glowing bright, And now I know his heart is right. Behind the laughter I could see My boy’s the man I’d hoped he’d be.
# Poems of Peace/I Truth, am thy Redeemer

I, TRUTH, AM THY REDEEMER
I, Truth, am thy Redeemer, come to Me; Lay down thy sin and pain and wild unrest; And I will calm thy spirit’s stormy sea, Pouring the oil of peace upon thy breast: Friendless and lone—lo, I abide with thee.
Defeated and deserted, cast away; What refuge hast thou? Whither canst thou fly? Upon My changeless breast thy burdens lay; I am thy certain refuge, even I: All things are passing; I alone can stay.
Lo I, the Great Forsaken, am the Friend Of the forsaken; I, whom men despise, The weak, the helpless, and despised defend; I gladden aching hearts and weeping eyes: Rest thou in Me, I am thy sorrow’s end.
Lovers and friends and wealth, pleasures and fame— These fail and change, and pass into decay; But my Love does not change; and in thy blame I blame thee not, nor turn My face away: In My calm bosom hide thy sin and shame.
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# Poems of Giacomo Leopardi/Poem 13

THE EVENING OF THE HOLIDAY.
 The night is mild and clear, and without wind,  And o'er the roofs, and o'er the gardens round  The moon shines soft, and from afar reveals  Each mountain-peak serene. O lady, mine,  Hushed now is every path, and few and dim  The lamps that glimmer through the balconies.  Thou sleepest! in thy quiet rooms, how light  And easy is thy sleep! No care thy heart  Consumes; and little dost thou know or think,  How deep a wound thou in my heart hast made.  Thou sleepest; I to yonder heaven turn,  That seems to greet me with a loving smile,  And to that Nature old, omnipotent,  That doomed me still to suffer. "I to thee  All hope deny," she said, "e'en hope; nor may  Those eyes of thine e'er shine, save through their tears."
 This was a holiday; its pleasures o'er,  Thou seek'st repose; and happy in thy dreams  Recallest those whom thou hast pleased to-day,  And those who have pleased thee: not I, indeed,--  I hoped it not,--unto thy thoughts occur.  Meanwhile, I ask, how much of life remains  To me; and on the earth I cast myself,  And cry, and groan. How wretched are my days,  And still so young! Hark, on the road I hear,  Not far away, the solitary song  Of workman, who returns at this late hour,  In merry mood, unto his humble home;  And in my heart a cruel pang I feel,  At thought, how all things earthly pass away,  And leave no trace behind. This festal day  Hath fled; a working-day now follows it,  And all, alike, are swept away by Time.  Where is the glory of the antique nations now?  Where now the fame of our great ancestors?  The empire vast of Rome, the clash of arms?  Now all is peace and silence, all the world  At rest; their very names are heard no more.  E'en from my earliest years, when we  Expect so eagerly a holiday,  The moment it was past, I sought my couch,  Wakeful and sad; and at the midnight hour,  When I the song heard of some passer-by,  That slowly in the distance died away,  The same deep anguish felt I in my heart.
# Poems of Giacomo Leopardi/Poem 18

TO THE BELOVED.
 Beauty beloved, who hast my heart inspired,  Seen from afar, or with thy face concealed,  Save, when in visions of the night revealed,  Or seen in daydreams bright,  When all the fields are filled with light,  And Nature's smile is sweet,  Say, hast thou blessed  Some golden age of innocence,  And floatest, now, a shadow, o'er the earth?  Or hath Fate's envious doom  Reserved thee for some happier day to come?
 To see thee e'er alive,  No hope remains to me;  Unless perchance, when from this body free,  My wandering spirit, lone,  O'er some new path, to some new world hath flown.  E'en here, at first, I, at the dawn  Of this, my day, so dreary and forlorn,  Sought thee, to guide me on my weary way:  But none on earth resembles thee. E'en if  One were in looks and acts and words thy peer,  Though like thee, she less lovely would appear.
 Amidst the deepest grief  That fate hath e'er to human lot assigned,  Could one but love thee on this earth,  Alive, and such as my thought painteth thee,  He would be happy in his misery:  And I most clearly see, how, still,  As in my earliest days,  Thy love would make me cling to virtue's ways.  Unto _my_ grief heaven hath no comfort brought;  And yet with thee, this mortal life would seem  Like that in heaven, of which we fondly dream.
 Along the valleys where is heard  The song of the laborious husbandman,  And where I sit and moan  O'er youth's illusions gone;  Along the hills, where I recall with tears,  The vanished joys and hopes of earlier years,  At thought of thee, my heart revives again.  O could I still thy image dear retain,  In this dark age, and in this baleful air!  To loss of thee, O let me be resigned,  And in thy image still some comfort find!
 If thou art one of those  Ideas eternal, which the Eternal Mind  Refused in earthly form to clothe,  Nor would subject unto the pain and strife  Of this, our frail and dreary life;  Or if thou hast a mansion fair,  Amid the boundless realms of space,  That lighted is by a more genial sun,  And breathest there a more benignant air;  From here, where brief and wretched are our days,  Receive thy humble lover's hymn of praise!
# Poems of Giacomo Leopardi/Poem 11

THE LONELY SPARROW.
 Thou from the top of yonder antique tower,  O lonely sparrow, wandering, hast gone,  Thy song repeating till the day is done,  And through this valley strays the harmony.  How Spring rejoices in the fields around,  And fills the air with light,  So that the heart is melted at the sight!  Hark to the bleating flocks, the lowing herds!  In sweet content, the other birds  Through the free sky in emulous circles wheel,  In pure enjoyment of their happy time:  Thou, pensive, gazest on the scene apart,  Nor wilt thou join them in the merry round;  Shy playmate, thou for mirth hast little heart;  And with thy plaintive music, dost consume  Both of the year, and of thy life, the bloom.
 Alas, how much my ways  Resemble thine! The laughter and the sport,  That fill with glee our youthful days,  And thee, O love, who art youth's brother still,  Too oft the bitter sigh of later years,  I care not for; I know not why,  But from them ever distant fly:  Here in my native place,  As if of alien race,  My spring of life I like a hermit pass.  This day, that to the evening now gives way,  Is in our town an ancient holiday.  Hark, through the air, that voice of festal bell,  While rustic guns in frequent thunders sound,  Reverberated from the hills around.  In festal robes arrayed,  The neighboring youth,  Their houses leaving, o'er the roads are spread;  They pleasant looks exchange, and in their hearts  Rejoice. I, lonely, in this distant spot,  Along the country wandering,  Postpone all pleasure and delight  To some more genial time: meanwhile,  As through the sunny air around I gaze,  My brow is smitten by his rays,  As after such a day serene,  Dropping behind yon distant hills,  He vanishes, and seems to say,  That thus all happy youth must pass away.
 Thou, lonely little bird, when thou  Hast reached the evening of the days  Thy stars assign to thee,  Wilt surely not regret thy ways;  For all thy wishes are  Obedient to Nature's law. But ah!  If I, in spite of all my prayers,  Am doomed the hateful threshold of old age  To cross, when these dull eyes will give  No response to another's heart,  The world to them a void will be,  Each day become more full of misery,  How then, will this, my wish appear  In those dark hours, that dungeon drear?  My blighted youth, my sore distress,  Alas, will _then_ seem happiness!
# Poems of Giacomo Leopardi/Poem 14

TO THE MOON.
 O lovely moon, how well do I recall  The time,--'tis just a year--when up this hill  I came, in my distress, to gaze at thee:  And thou suspended wast o'er yonder grove,  As now thou art, which thou with light dost fill.  But stained with mist, and tremulous, appeared  Thy countenance to me, because my eyes  Were filled with tears, that could not be suppressed;  For, oh, my life was wretched, wearisome,  And _is_ so still, unchanged, beloved moon!  And yet this recollection pleases me,  This computation of my sorrow's age.  How pleasant is it, in the days of youth,  When hope a long career before it hath,  And memories are few, upon the past  To dwell, though sad, and though the sadness last!