OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Mine and Thine (1904)/Transition

TRANSITION
Awake my soul! Thou shalt not creep and crawl— An earth-bound creature, pitiful and small, Whose weak ambition knows no higher goal! O wistful soul,
When morning sings, Forgetful of the night, Bathe all thy restless being in the light; Till 'neath the mesh that close about thee clings Thou feel thy wings!
​Then find life's door,— Trusting the instinct true That points to Heaven and the aerial blue A wingèd thing, impelled for evermore To soar and soar!
# Mine and Thine (1904)/To William Butler Yeats

TO WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS
Tell us of beauty! Touch thy silver lyre And bid thy Muse unfold her shining wings! Tell us of joy—of those unaging things Which wither not, nor are consumed of fire, Things unto which the souls of all aspire! Sing us the mystic song thine Erin sings, Her poignant dreams, her weird imaginings, With magic of thy "Land of Heart's Desire!"
Let others hate!—from lips not thine be hurled Reproaches; since all hate at last must prove Abortive, though it triumph for a while. ​The gospels that indeed have won the world Laid their foundations in the strength of love. Sing thou, a lover, of thy wave-washed Isle!
# Mine and Thine (1904)/To Poverty

TO POVERTY
Pale priestess of a fane discredited, Whose votaries to-day are few or none; Goddess austere, whose touch the vulgar shun, As they would shrink from a Procrustes bed, Hieing to temples where the feast is spread, And life laughs loudly, and the smooth wines run; Wise mother!—least desired 'neath the sun, At thy chill breasts the noblest have been fed.
Great are thy counsels for the brave and strong; Yet do we fear thy brooding mystery, ​The griefs, the hardships, which about thee throng, The scanty garners where thy harvests be; But seeing what unto the rich belong, We know our debt, O Poverty, to thee!
# Mine and Thine (1904)/To England

TO ENGLAND
We are not twain, but one: though seas divide us— The children of the English-speaking race— This nothing now can change: whate'er betide us, This is our birthright grace.
The tongue that holds our earliest recollection, Whose accents moved us like a fond caress— The tongue in which we lisped our first affection, Must still attach and bless.
​America and England knit together— Offspring of one great Mother, Sister Lands— Fear neither frowning fate nor boding weather, When close are joined their hands.
Beneath the ocean-billow sways the cable That gives them instant knowledge, each of each, And were it sunk, their hearts would still be able To find a way of speech.
The younger, who her virgin prairies planted To bless the alien—Teuton, Latin, Gaul, Welcomes the poorest, as to realms enchanted, And makes them English, all!
And still, the elder, in the hour of danger, The bond of kinship never quite forgot, ​Speaks with commanding accent to the stranger: "Be heedful; touch her not!"
For we have felt—have felt with one another, Sharing each other's hope, each other's dread; And we have wept, as children of one mother, Mourning our cherished dead.
Is 't for ourselves this friendship hath caressed us— That Heaven hath strengthened so the English speech? Nay; God forbid! the mercy that hath blessed us Hath a diviner reach!
If with new strength there come not larger kindness, Our banners, proudly borne, were better furled; ​If we no longer see, for selfish blindness, Beyond our realms, the world,—
Then poor, indeed, though vast our rule supernal, Who magnify the ill we might redeem; Missing the glory of the hope eternal— The god-like, human dream!
To solace life, there blooms on earth a flower Whose deathless name is Love. Of its increase Are born compassion, freedom, beauty, power; And of its gift is peace.
O Sister Lands, thrice blest! though wisdom guide us, Yet in our hearts may love perfected lie— Deep as the ocean that cannot divide us, Kind as the arching sky!
# Mine and Thine (1904)/To Helen Keller

TO HELEN KELLER
Life has its limitations manifold: All life; not only that which throbs in thee, And strains its fetters, eager to be free. The faultless eye may not thy vision hold— Maiden, whose brow with thought is aureoled— And they who hear may lack the ministry, The august influence of Silence, she Who brooded o'er the void in ages old.
Prisoner of the dark, inaudible— Light, which the night itself could not eclipse, Thou shinest forth Man's being to reveal. ​We learn with awe from thine apocalypse, That nothing can the human spirit quell, And know him lord of all things, who can feel!
# Mine and Thine (1904)/Unrest

UNREST
Man that will not be beguiled Like a fond and happy child From his toil or futile strife, Feels within his bosom burning All the deep, impassioned yearning Woven in the woof of life.
And though far, with weary feet, He may wander, Man shall meet No content until he come— Soon or late, his fate compelling— To Love's domed and star-lit dwelling, For he has no other home.
# Mine and Thine (1904)/The Return

THE RETURN
Who knocks at the door so late, so late— Who knocks so late at the door? Is it one who comes as a stranger comes, Or one who has knocked before? Is it one who stays with intent to bless, Or one who stands to implore?
My days have been as the years, she said, And my heart, my heart is sore; ​Love looked in my face for a moment's space One happy spring of yore— Looked in my face with a wistful grace: And left me to grieve evermore!
Through all the days the door stood wide, For hope had breathed a vow That love should ne'er be kept outside. The years were long and hope hath died; The door at last is barred and fast— Why comes this knocking now?
Yet woe the waiting heart, she said, And the heart it waiteth for! And woe the truth and wasted youth That nothing shall restore! The faith that's fled, the hope that's dead, The dreams that come no more.
​Who knocks at the gate—so late, so late? Thou foolish heart, be still! What is 't to thee if love or hate Knocks in the midnight chill? Art thou, poor heart, compassionate? Is love so hard to kill?
Ah me! the night is cold, she said; Would I might all forget; But memory lives when hope is dead, And pity heals regret; As light still lingers overhead When sun and moon are set.
# Mérimée's Letters

A review of Prosper Mérimée's Lettres à une Inconnue.
* "The Letters of Prosper Mérimée" in The Independent (9 April 1874): 9–10.
    — First publication in any form.
* "Mérimée's Letters" in French Poets and Novelists (London: Macmillan & Co., 1878): 390–402.
    — First English book edition.
* "Mérimée's Lettes" in French Poets and Novelists (Leipzig: Bernhard Tauchnitz, 1883): ?–?.
    — First Continental book edition.
* "Mérimée's Letters" in French Poets and Novelists (London: Macmillan & Co., 1884): ?–?.
    — Second English book edition.
# Münchausen, Hieronymus Karl Friedrich

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Münchausen, Hieronymus Karl Friedrich."
* sister projects: 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.
* "Munchausen, Baron," in Encyclopædia Britannica (11th ed., 1911)
* "Münchausen, Hieronymus Karl Friedrich," in The Encyclopedia Americana, New York: The Encyclopedia Americana Corporation (1906)
# Mécanique Céleste

* Volume I. (1829) (transcription in progress)
* Volume II. (1832) (transcription not started)
* Volume III. (1834) (transcription not started)
* Volume IV. (1839) (transcription not started)
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Mårbacka/Part 5, Chapter 6

It was late afternoon of a beautiful day in autumn. Back-Kaisa, the onetime nursemaid at Mårbacka, who now worked at the loom, was tramping through the woods on her way to the hill-croft where she was born and grew up—on an errand for Lieutenant Lagerlöf. She and little Selma were still great friends, and she had taken the child along. They were in no hurry, these two; they stopped to pick and eat whortleberries growing by the roadside, they admired the gorgeous flybane and gathered their aprons full of lovely mosses to take home with them so as to have something pretty to lay between the inner and storm-windows of the nursery. Back-Kaisa was happy to be once more in the woods, where she knew every shrub and every stone. When they came to the wattled fence which surrounded the clearing where the croft-hut stood and were about to step over the stile, Back-Kaisa said:
"Mind, Selma, you mustn't say a word about war in Father's hearing!"
The little girl was astonished at that. She knew that Back-Kaisa's father was an old soldier who had ​fought with Napoleon at Leipsic. That one could not speak with him about war seemed unbelievable.
"Why can't I talk to him about war?" she queried.
"That one must never do with them that's been out in a real war," Back-Kaisa told her.
Now the little girl was more astonished than ever. She thought of Fritiof; of Hjalmar; of Hector, and all the gods and heroes of antiquity she had read about in her saga-books—and her head was in a whirl.
In the cabin on the edge of the hearth, with his back to the fire, sat Back-Kaisa's father, a tall, gaunt-looking man with a coarse-featured and furrowed face. That he was of the olden time could be seen by his mode of dress, for he wore knee-breeches and shoes instead of boots and had on a shockingly grimy sheepskin coat. But on the whole his appearance was not more bizarre than that of other old peasants.
The little girl stared and stared at the soldier who would not allow any one to speak of war in his hearing. To her there was nothing so delightful as to hear tales of battles or read stories of wars. She thought it a great pity that she could not ask him to tell her about the things he had been through.
All the while she sat there she dared not speak or reply when spoken to. She felt that if she opened her mouth she would forget, and say something about war, and then the old man might kill her.
After a time she began to think he looked horrible. It was so incomprehensible, this, that one could not ​talk to him about war. There must be something dreadful back of it all which she did not understand. Perhaps the old man was dangerous? She only wanted to escape, and was ready to make for the door. With every moment that passed her fear increased, and by the time Back-Kaisa was ready to leave and they could at last say good-bye, she was fairly beside herself with fright.
Now, if he had been like other old soldiers, and had said that war was the greatest thing in the world; if he had boasted of killing hundreds of men and burning down whole cities and villages, then the little girl would not have been a bit afraid of him.
# Münch-Bellinghausen, Eligius Franz Joseph

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "Münch-Bellinghausen, Eligius Franz Joseph."
* sister projects: 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.
* "Baron Eligius Franz Joseph von Münch-Bellinghausen," in Catholic Encyclopedia, (ed.) by Charles G. Herbermann and others, New York: The Encyclopaedia Press (1913)
* "Münch-Bellinghausen, Eligius Franz Joseph, Freiherr von," in Encyclopædia Britannica (11th ed., 1911)
* "Münch-Bellinghausen, Eligius Franz Joseph," in The Encyclopedia Americana, New York: The Encyclopedia Americana Corporation (1906)
# Missouri v. Kansas

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
213 U.S. 78
Missouri v. Kansas
Argued: and submitted February 23, 1909. --- Decided: March 22, 1909
Messrs. Hunter M. Meriwether, Henry M. Beardsley, and Elliott W. Major for complainant.
[Argument of Counsel from pages 78-80 intentionally omitted]
Messrs. Fred S. Jackson, John S. Dawson, and C. C. Coleman for defendant.
[Argument of Counsel from pages 80-81 intentionally omitted]
Mr. Justice Holmes delivered the opinion of the 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
# Monody on a Tea-kettle

* information about this edition.
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Written in 1790, first published in the collected works of 1834.
O Muse who sangest late another’s pain, To griefs domestic turn thy coal-black steed! With slowest steps thy funeral steed must go, Nodding his head in all the pomp of woe: Wide scatter round each dark and deadly weed, And let the melancholy dirge complain, (Whilst Bats shall shriek and Dogs shall howling run) The tea-kettle is spoilt and Coleridge is undone!
Your cheerful songs, ye unseen crickets, cease! Let songs of grief your alter’d minds engage! 10 For he who sang responsive to your lay, What time the joyous bubbles ’gan to play, The sooty swain has felt the fire’s fierce rage; — Yes, he is gone, and all my woes increase; I heard the water issuing from the wound — No more the Tea shall pour its fragrant steams around!
O Goddess best belov’d! Delightful Tea! With thee compar’d what yields the madd’ning Vine? Sweet power! who know’st to spread the calm delight, And the pure joy prolong to midmost night! 20 Ah! must I all thy varied sweets resign? Enfolded close in grief thy form I see; No more wilt thou extend thy willing arms, Receive the fervent Jove, and yield him all thy charms!
How sink the mighty low by Fate opprest! — Perhaps, O Kettle! thou by scornful toe Rude urg’d t’ ignoble place with plaintive din, May’st rust obscure midst heaps of vulgar tin; — As if no joy had ever seiz’d my breast When from thy spout the streams did arching fly, — 30 As if, infus’d, thou ne’er hadst known t’ inspire All the warm raptures of poetic fire!
But hark! or do I fancy the glad voice — "What tho’ the swain did wondrous charms disclose — (Not such did Memnon’s sister sable drest) Take these bright arms with royal face imprest, A better Kettle shall thy soul rejoice, And with Oblivion’s wings o’erspread thy woes!" Thus Fairy Hope can soothe distress and toil; On empty Trivets she bids fancied Kettles boil! 40
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Monody on the Death of Chatterton

"Monody on the Death of Chatterton" was composed by Samuel Taylor Coleridge in 1790 and was rewritten throughout his lifetime. The poem deals with the idea of Thomas Chatterton, a poet who committed suicide, as representing the poetic struggle. Warning: template has been deprecated.
* Monody on the Death of Chatterton (1790) (first version)
* Monody on the Death of Chatterton (1794) (second version) in Preface to Poems supposed to have been written at Bristol, by Thomas Rowley and Others, in the Fifteenth Century
* Monody on the Death of Chatterton (1796) (third version) in Poems on Various Subjects (1796)
* Monody on the Death of Chatterton (1829) (sixth version) in Sibylline Leaves (1829)
* Monody on the Death of Chatterton (1834) (final version)
# Moonlight, a Poem: with Several Copies of Verses/To John, Lord Eldon

TO
JOHN, LORD ELDON,
LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF GREAT BRITAIN,
HIGH STEWARD OF THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.
# Moonlight, a Poem: with Several Copies of Verses/To Robert Smirke, Esq.

TO ROBERT SMIRKE, ESQ.
ON HIS BEAUTIFUL BUILDING OF COVENT GARDEN THEATRE.
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# Moonlight, a Poem: with Several Copies of Verses/To Robert Southey

TO
ROBERT SOUTHEY:
POET LAUREATE.
# Moonlight, a Poem: with Several Copies of Verses/Translation of the Prologue to the Andrian of Terence

I ADD ALSO A TRANSLATION OF THE
PROLOGUE TO THE ANDRIAN OF TERENCE,
BY THE SAME NOBLE AND VENERABLE PEN.
# Moonlight, a Poem: with Several Copies of Verses/Virgil's Ghost

VIRGIL'S GHOST.
# Moonlight, a Poem: with Several Copies of Verses/Written on the Thirty-First Day of December

WRITTEN
ON THE
THIRTY-FIRST DAY OF DECEMBER.
# Moonlight, a Poem: with Several Copies of Verses/Translation of a Chorus from the Hippolytus of Euripides

TRANSLATION
OF A
CHORUS FROM THE HIPPOLYTUS OF EURIPIDES,
BY EDWARD, LORD THURLOW;
SOMETIME LORD HIGH CHANCELLOR OF ENGLAND.
# Moonlight (Kibbe Turner)

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
as serialized in the The Red Book Magazine, 1921 Aug–Oct.
MOONLIGHT
By GEORGE KIBBE TURNER
Illustrated by Robert W. Stewart
* Part I
* Part II
* Part III
Copyright, 1921, by The Consolidated Magazines Corporation (The Red Book Magazine). All rights reserved.
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 1952, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 71 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
# More songs by the fighting men. Soldiers poets: second series/Leslie Coulson

LESLIE COULSON
Sergt., London Regiment, R.F.
(Died of Wounds in France, October, 1916)
"—But a Short Time to Live"
OUR little hour,—how swift it flies When poppies flare and lilies smile; How soon the fleeting minute dies, Leaving us but a little while To dream our dream, to sing our song, To pick the fruit, to pluck the flower, The Gods—They do not give us long,— One little hour.
One little hour,—how short it is When Love with dew-eyed loveliness Raises her lips for ours to kiss And dies within our first caress. Youth flickers out like wind-blown flame, Sweets of to-day to-morrow sour, For Time and Death relentless claim Our little hour.
Our little hour,—how short a time To wage our wars, to fan our hates, ​To take our fill of armoured crime, To troop our banners, storm the gates. Blood on the sword, our eyes blood-red, Blind in our puny reign of power, Do we forget how soon is sped Our little hour?
Our little hour,—how soon it dies: How short a time to tell our beads, To chant our feeble Litanies, To think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds. The altar lights grow pale and dim, The bells hang silent in the tower— So passes with the dying hymn Our little hour.
From the Somme
IN other days I sang of simple things, Of summer dawn, and summer noon and night, The dewy grass, the dew-wet fairy rings, The lark's long golden flight.
Deep in the forest I made melody While squirrels cracked their hazel nuts on high, Or I would cross the wet sand to the sea And sing to sea and sky.
​When came the silvered silence of the night I stole to casements over scented lawns, And softly sang of love and love's delight To mute white marble fauns.
Oft in the tavern parlour I would sing Of morning sun upon the mountain vine, And, calling for a chorus, sweep the string In praise of good red wine.
I played with all the toys the gods provide, I sang my songs and made glad holiday. Now I have cast my broken toys aside And flung my lute away.
A singer once, I now am fain to weep. Within my soul I feel strange music swell, Vast chants of tragedy too deep—too deep For my poor lips to tell.
The Secret
WHAT is the secret—the secret That lies at the heart of it all— The surge of the stars, the cry of the wind, And the beat of the sea, And the surge, and the cry, and the beat of the soul in me?
# More songs by the fighting men. Soldiers poets: second series/Malcolm Hemphrey

MALCOLM HEMPHREY
Corporal, Army Ordnance Corps
The New Year
THE white moon like a queenly ship Sails down the blue and tropic night, And all the clouds in homage slip Into her light.
A quiet veil lies on the earth, Whose silver glory makes me sad— Beyond, ah me! War's crashing mirth Rings wild and mad.
Begone, old year, pass from thy own, And make thou way for newer life; Nor grace nor pity will atone For all thy strife.
I watch thy last few embers die, And thy bleak ashes—blown around By strong winds that go whirling by— Sink to the ground.
​But rise to sink, and each black flake Clings as a lambent stain upon The young year's blossoms as they wake And then is gone.
Yet wait! some day a greater gale Of Hope and Faith shall drive all doubt And sharp despair beyond the pale— Shall drive without
The soul's infinite sorrow and Vast shadows of a red, red year, And undefiled, superbly grand, Holy and dear
Again the asphodel shall grace The world's lone, ravaged wilderness; And Youth, in roaming through that place Of quietness,
Shall rest beside the peaceful graves Where wild bees hover in the grass, Which every warm and soft breeze waves; And ere he pass
Shall kneel and lift a hymn of praise For those who fought, without a fear Or doubting heart to tear, to raise God's good New Year!
East Africa, January, 1917.
# More songs by the fighting men. Soldiers poets: second series/Murray McClymont

MURRAY McCLYMONT
2nd Lieut., 2/10th (Scottish) K.L.R.
God's Acre
Dedicated to my "skipper," Captain Alan Cookson (killed in action 27th June, 1917), who now sleeps eternally in the shadow of the little grey church at . . .
WHEN sands of Time have run their course And mortal heart is stilled, We render back unto its Source The dust that He fulfilled;
And in some still, subduéd spot Where all is peace, and they Who walk the silent paths are taught To meditate and pray,
We to that dust its rest afford And dry our idle tears: For Death is peace, and Peace adored Reigns here throughout the years.
B.E.F., France, Sept., 1917.
Hills of Home
TO gloam-blue hills that shadow moorland spaces, To legend-haunted vales where all is still, To that grey land where slumber martyred races, My spirit flees at will.
I hear from far away the whaup's wild crying Low o'er the moor and wind-swept fringe of sea, And longing fills my breast and I am sighing— Sighing for love of thee.
I see, as in a spell, the bracken flowing Like silver streams beneath a battered moon; I see the heather darker, redder blowing— Flushing to crimson soon!
In dreams I roam the long-forsaken places, In scented wood, by rill and grassy howe; And, smiling, greet the old familiar faces— And I am happy now!
Dear Hills of Home, I ask but this of Heaven (If thou my captive spirit wilt not free!) That in my dying moments I be given One last, fond kiss from thee.
1916.
To a Fallen Comrade
I HEARD the voice of Spring come softly pleading Across the fresh and breathing wold to-day: The sun, set free from cloudy bonds, was speeding To greet the earth with each impassioned ray.
Wide-flung my casement in the cool I listened! The birds were busy toying with a song, And far afield where dappled grasses glistened The meadow brook was murmuring along.
And then there came a bee with yet the numbing Languors of the winter on its wings: It turned to gold the quiet with its humming— And then resumed its drowsy wanderings.
I looked upon the fields and trees and hedges And saw before mine eyes a world reborn, And on beyond the green world's utmost edges . . . Where Hope retreated bleeding and forlorn!
​Ah! then I knew that Spring would only bring me Blue skies and songs and flowers drenched with dew! Ah! then I knew that Spring could never bring me The friend I had and, having, lost in you!
April, 1917.