OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Phantasmagoria and Other Poems/The Three Voices/First Voice

THE FIRST VOICE.
With hands tight clenched through matted hair,
He crouched in trance of dumb despair:
There came a breeze from out the air.
It passed athwart the glooming flat—
It fanned his forehead as he sat—
It lightly bore away his hat,
All to the feet of one who stood
Like maid enchanted in a wood,
Frowning as darkly as she could,
With huge umbrella, lank and brown,
Unerringly she pinned it down,
Right through the centre of the crown.
Then, with an aspect cold and grim,
Regardless of its battered rim,
She took it up and gave it him.
Awhile like one in dreams he stood,
Then faltered forth his gratitude,
In words just short of being rude:
For it had lost its shape and shine,
And it had cost him four-and-nine,
And he was going out to dine.
With grave indifference to his speech,
Fixing her eyes upon the beach,
She said "Each gives to more than each."
He could not answer yea or nay;
He faltered "Gifts may pass away."
Yet knew not what he meant to say.
"If that be so," she straight replied,
"Each heart with each doth coincide.
What boots it? For the world is wide."
And he, not wishing to appear
Less wise, said "This Material Sphere
Is but Attributive Idea."
But when she asked him "Wherefore so?"
He felt his very whiskers glow,
And frankly owned "I do not know."
While, like broad waves of golden grain,
Or sunlit hues on cloistered pane,
His colour came and went again.
Pitying his obvious distress,
Yet with a tinge of bitterness,
She said "The More exceeds the Less."
"A truth of such undoubted weight,"
He urged, "and so extreme in date,
It were superfluous to state."
Roused into sudden passion, she
In tone of cold malignity:
"To others, yes; but not to thee."
But when she saw him quail and quake,
And when he urged "For pity's sake!"
Once more in gentle tone she spake:
"Thought in the mind doth still abide;
That is by Intellect supplied,
And within that Idea doth hide.
"And he, that yearns the truth to know,
Still further inwardly may go,
And find Idea from Notion flow.
"And thus the chain, that sages sought,
Is to a glorious circle wrought,
For Notion hath its source in Thought."
When he, with racked and whirling brain,
Feebly implored her to explain,
She simply said it all again.
Wrenched with an agony intense,
He spake, neglecting Sound and Sense,
And careless of all consequence:
"Mind—I believe—is Essence—Ent—
Abstract—that is—an Accident—
Which we—that is to say—I meant—"
When, with quick breath and cheeks all flushed,
At length his speech was somewhat hushed,
She looked at him, and he was crushed.
It needed not her calm reply;
She fixed him with a stony eye,
And he could neither fight nor fly,
While she dissected, word by word,
His speech, half guessed at and half heard.
As might a cat a little bird.
Then, having wholly overthrown
His views, and stripped them to the bone,
Proceeded to unfold her own.
So passed they on with even pace,
Yet gradually one might trace
A shadow growing on his face.
# Phantasmagoria and Other Poems/The Three Voices/Second Voice

The Second Voice.
They walked beside the wave-worn beach,
Her tongue was very apt to teach,
And now and then he did beseech
She would abate her dulcet tone,
Because the talk was all her own,
And he was dull as any drone.
She urged "No cheese is made of chalk:"
And ceaseless flowed her dreary talk,
Tuned to the footfall of a walk.
Her voice was very full and rich,
And when at length she asked him "Which?" It mounted to its highest pitch.
He a bewildered answer gave,
Drowned in the sullen moaning wave,
Lost in the echoes of the cave.
He answered her he knew not what;
Like shaft from bow at random shot:
He spoke, but she regarded not.
She waited not for his reply,
But with a downward leaden eye
Went on as if he were not by.
Sound argument and grave defence,
Strange questions raised on "Why?" and "Whence?"
And weighted down with common sense.
"Shall Man be Man? And shall he miss
Of other thoughts no thought but this,
Harmonious dews of sober bliss?
"What boots it? Shall his fevered eye
Through towering nothingness descry
The grisly phantom hurry by?
"And hear dumb shrieks that fill the air;
See mouths that gape, and eyes that stare
And redden in the dusky glare?
"The meadows breathing amber light,
The darkness toppling from the height,
The feathery train of granite Night?
"Shall he, grown gray among his peers,
Through the thick curtain of his tears Catch glimpses of his earlier years,
"And hear the sounds he knew of yore,
Old shufflings on the sanded floor,
Old knuckles tapping at the door?
"Yet still before him as he flies
One pallid form shall ever rise,
And, bodying forth in glassy eyes
"The vision of a vanished good,
Low peering through the tangled wood,
Shall freeze the current of his blood."
Still from each fact, with skill uncouth
And savage rapture, like a tooth
She wrenched a slow reluctant truth.
Till, like some silent water-mill,
When summer suns have dried the rill,
She reached a full stop, and was still.
Dead calm succeeded to the fuss,
As when the loaded omnibus
Has reached the railway terminus;
When, for the tumult of the street,
Is heard the engine's stifled beat,
The velvet tread of porters' feet.
With glance that ever sought the ground,
She moved her lips without a sound,
And every now and then she frowned.
He gazed upon the sleeping sea,
And joyed in its tranquillity,
And in that silence dead, but she
To muse a little space did seem,
Then, like the echo of a dream,
Harped back upon her threadbare theme.
Still an attentive ear he lent,
But could not fathom what she meant:
She was not deep, nor eloquent.
He marked the ripple on the sand:
The even swaying of her hand
Was all that he could understand.
He left her, and he turned aside:
He sat and watched the coming tide
Across the shores so newly dried.
He wondered at the waters clear,
The breeze that whispered in his ear,
The billows heaving far and near;
And why he had so long preferred
To hang upon her every word;
"In truth," he said, "it was absurd."
# Phantasmagoria and Other Poems/The Sailor's Wife

THE SAILOR'S WIFE.
See! There are tears upon her face—
Tears newly shed, and scarcely dried:
Close, in an agonized embrace,
She clasps the infant at her side.
Peace dwells in those soft-lidded eyes,
And parted lips that faintly smile—
Peace, the foretaste of Paradise,
In heart too young for care or guile.
No peace the mother's features wear;
But quivering lip, and knotted brow,
And broken mutterings, all declare
The fearful dream that haunts her now.
The storm-wind, rushing through the sky,
Wails from the depths of cloudy space;
Shrill, piercing as the seaman's cry
When Death and he are face to face.
Familiar tones are in the gale;
They ring upon her startled ear:
And quick and low she pants the tale
That tells of agony and fear:
"Still that phantom-ship is nigh—
With a vexed and life-like motion,
All beneath an angry sky,
Rocking on an angry ocean.
"Round the straining mast and shrouds
Throng the spirits of the storm;
Darkly seen through driving clouds,
Bends each gaunt and ghastly form.
"See! The good ship yields at last!
Dumbly yields, and fights no more;
Driving in the frantic blast
Headlong on the fatal shore.
"Hark! I hear her battered side,
With a low and sullen shock,
Dashed amid the foaming tide
Full upon a sunken rock.   "His face shines out against the sky,
Like a ghost, so cold and white;
With a dead despairing eye
Gazing through the gathered night.
"Is he watching, through the dark,
Where a mocking ghostly hand
Points to yonder feeble spark
Glimmering from the distant land?
"Sees he, in this hour of dread,
Hearth and home and wife and child?
Loved ones who, in summers fled,
Clung to him and wept and smiled?
"Reeling sinks the fated bark
To her tomb beneath the wave;
Must he perish in the dark—
Not a hand stretched out to save?
"See the spirits, how they crowd!
Watching death with eyes that burn!
Waves rush in——" she shrieks aloud
Ere her waking sense return.
The storm is gone: the skies are clear:
Hush'd is that bitter cry of pain:
The only sound that meets her ear
The heaving of the sullen main.
Though heaviness endure the night,
Yet joy shall come with break of day;
She shudders with a strange delight—
The fearful dream is pass'd away.   She wakes; the grey dawn streaks the dark;
With early songs the copses ring:
Far off she hears the watch-dog bark
A joyful bark of welcoming!
# Poems (Baldwyn)/A Sketch of Life

* ↑ An allusion to "The Watcher."
* ↑ A critic's hand has warn'd me to correct What I must truly own is a defect,— That in this little sketch of human life I've not brought in the careless, faithless wife. In one short ev'ning you would fail to trace All, all that in society takes place; And then the length of this may represent That partly brain, and most—my lamp was spent! (A future view may, more excursive, prove How many are the principles that move!) The thought did rise, but feeling said "forbear,"— A sister's pen her own frail sex may spare; And heart doth grieve when home's bright hearth grows dim, And she forgets the vows she made to him. St. Johns, April 25, 1859.
# Poems (Baldwyn)/Colma

Note.—That Colma should speak so much when overwhelmed with such excessive grief, seems unnatural; but I have of course, adhered to the original.
# Poems (Baldwyn)/Address to Readers

ADDRESS TO READERS.
As I unfold my humble strains due to nature's beauties and give the effusions which have cheered my lonely hours, I trust the kind and generous of my native land will surely not see an unwomanly pretension in so unstudied a work. Not having for a long time any intention of publishing a book, I wrote as the impression of the moment might dictate, and as a resource among a limited number of recreations. I beg leave to mention, that some of my early productions will be found interspersed through the work. In a more elaborate effort, I might have done less, though some defects might have been obviated: a studied style is apt to subside into coldness and formality.
I lay, then, my little work before you, as it were the offering of friendship; and bid you, for the present, a cordial farewell.
A.B.
    15th April, 1859.
# Poems (Baldwyn)/Address to the Evening Star

ADDRESS TO THE EVENING STAR.
From "Songs of Selma."—Ossian.
"Star of descending night, fair is thy light in the west! Thou that liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud, thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings; the hum of their course is on the fields. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee; they bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam. Let the light of Ossian's soul arise!"
THE END.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/To Britannia

TO BRITANNIA
On seeing a picture of the cairn and cross under which lie Captain Scott and his men
BRITANNIA, they who perished here have crowned thee— Have proved the dauntless temper of thy soul; Great memories of the past, through them have found thee Intrepid as of old, untouched and whole.
Triumphant Mother! Make an end to sighing For these, thrice happy!—with sonorous breath Let bugles sing their requiem who are lying In all the full magnificence of death!
They knew not failure: dream and aspiration They knew, indeed, and love, and noble joy; And at the last faith brought them the elation That Destiny is powerless to destroy.
The utmost summit of desire attaining, What further is there left deserving strife? Ah, there is still the peerless hope remaining,— In death to prove one's worthiness of life!
​Sublime thy grief, Britannia! sons have crowned thee— With hard-won laurels have enwreathed thy name: Have shown the world the bulwark set around thee, Adding new consecration to thy fame.
Nor have they blessed thee, only: Fate defying, Others in lands remote shall fear contemn, And find it easier, themselves denying, To die like heroes, too,—remembering them.
They do not lie in lonely graves forsaken, Who for high ends can so supremely dare; From human hearts they can no more be taken, And Immortality is with them there.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/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, Attaches and doth bless.
America and England knit together— Offspring of one great Mother, Sister Lands— Need fear nor frowning fate nor boding weather, While 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.
America, who 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!"
Oh, 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, Men's 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 godlike, 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!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/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 by 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!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/To the Returning Brave

TO THE RETURNING BRAVE
COME home! The Land that sent you forth From East and West, from South and North, Looks wistfully beyond her gates, Extends her arms and waits—and waits!
At duty's call she stilled her woe; She smiled through tears and bade you go To face the death you would not shun. Brave hearts, return! Your task is done.
Not as you journeyed come you back! A glory is about your track Of deeds that vanquished tyranny And set a tortured people free:
Deeds, sprung of manhood's finest grace, That envious Time shall not efface; Deeds that proclaim a Nation's worth, And crown the Land that gave them birth.
America but waits to greet And bless you, kneeling at her feet, ​Your standards fair in honor furled, The proudest mother in the world!
Come home! The Land that sent you forth From East and West, from South and North, Looks wistfully beyond her gates, Extends her arms and waits!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/To One in Hospital Pent

TO ONE IN HOSPITAL PENT
LITTLE sister, everywhere There is sorrow: here—where men Greet the day-beam often when They the lagging moments measure By the suffering they bear— Just as there!
Earth-born children all are due At one goal, and none is free: Nay; not I, who seem to be Privileged at large to wander Where no walls obstruct the blue, More than you!
But where tears have wet the sod, Beautiful may flowers spring, And in cages birds may sing; For there's love, too, little sister, Everywhere that grief hath trod; And there's God!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/To Sappho Dead

TO SAPPHO DEAD
HOW glad you must be to lie at rest, Forgetful of him whom you loved so, Of him who loved you not: To leave all the watching and waiting, The hoping and doubting, behind you— To know no more of the longing That burned like a fire at your heart!
How glad you must be to lose yourself— Utterly, utterly, Sappho, In sleep that is sleep indeed!— To turn from the pain and the passion, The dreams of delight that, on waking, But mocked you and left you more lonely— The visions that ever betrayed!
How glad, after all—oh, how glad to forget The golden one, dread Aphrodite!— The laughter deceitful and sweet Wherewith from her own glowing bosom She gave the red rose that consumed you, ​Whose fire only floods all-embracing Could cool, as they rocked you in sleep!
Hereafter for others her emblem shall bloom: For others shall be the delusion, The torturing doubt, the despair; But you, cradled deep mid the waters, Naught heeding of ebb-tide or flowing, Your heart pulsing not with their pulsing,— You, Sappho, untroubled shall rest.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Too Late

TOO LATE
THE words of love I never said to thee I whisper now, The tenderness I might have given thee I offer now, As at thy feet, who hopeless knelt to me, I, hopeless, bow.
The wintry bush in yonder hedgerow growing, A rose adorns, And near and far are snowy clusters blowing, Where late were thorns; But still my heart, nor bud nor blossom knowing, Unpitied mourns.
I see the bird that to his mate is winging— His mate so dear, The very heart within his breast is singing As he draws near, And I, O love, too late my love am bringing— Thou dost not hear!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/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 forevermore To soar and soar!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/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!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/To a Poet

TO A POET
GIVE us one dream!— One swift, authentic vision Of perfect loveliness to snatch the breath: One glimpse into unchartered realms elysian Where never cometh death!
Sing us one song Whose accent is immortal— Enduring as the asphodel, the flower That blooms unfading nigh to Hades' portal: Sing us one song of power!
Brief, if you will,— A word of life transforming: A word hope's wearied vision to restore: A vital word, our human heart-blood warming, And . . . you need write no more!
# Open Licence

* Open Licence v1.0 (2011).
* Open Licence v2.0 (2017).
# Open Letter to Hobbyists

February 3, 1976
An Open Letter to Hobbyists
To me, the most critical thing in the hobby market right now is the lack of good software courses, books and software itself. Without good software and an owner who understands programming, a hobby computer is wasted. Will quality software be written for the hobby market?
Almost a year ago, Paul Allen and myself, expecting the hobby market to expand, hired Monte Davidoff and developed Altair BASIC. Though the initial work took only two months, the three of us have spent most of the last year documenting, improving and adding features to BASIC. Now we have 4K, 8K, EXTENDED, ROM and DISK BASIC. The value of the computer time we have used exceeds $40,000.
The feedback we have gotten from the hundreds of people who say they are using BASIC has all been positive. Two surprising things are apparent, however, 1) Most of these "users" never bought BASIC (less than 10% of all Altair owners have bought BASIC), and 2) The amount of royalties we have received from sales to hobbyists makes the time spent on Altair BASIC worth less than $2 an hour.
Why is this? As the majority of hobbyists must be aware, most of you steal your software. Hardware must be paid for, but software is something to share. Who cares if the people who worked on it get paid?
Is this fair? One thing you don't do by stealing software is get back at MITS for some problem you may have had. MITS doesn't make money selling software. The royalty paid to us, the manual, the tape and the overhead make it a break-even operation. One thing you do do is prevent good software from being written. Who can afford to do professional work for nothing? What hobbyist can put 3-man years into programming, finding all bugs, documenting his product and distribute for free? The fact is, no one besides us has invested a lot of money in hobby software. We have written 6800 BASIC, and are writing 8080 APL and 6800 APL, but there is very little incentive to make this software available to hobbyists. Most directly, the thing you do is theft.
What about the guys who re-sell Altair BASIC, aren't they making money on hobby software? Yes, but those who have been reported to us may lose in the end. They are the ones who give hobbyists a bad name, and should be kicked out of any club meeting they show up at.
I would appreciate letters from any one who wants to pay up, or has a suggestion or comment. Just write to me at 1180 Alvarado SE, #114, Albuquerque, New Mexico, 87108. Nothing would please me more than being able to hire ten programmers and deluge the hobby market with good software.
Bill Gates General Partner, Micro-Soft
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was legally published within the United States (or the United Nations Headquarters in New York subject to Section 7 of the United States Headquarters Agreement) between 1929 and 1977 (inclusive) without a copyright notice.
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
# Pacific Mail Company v. Lucas

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
258 U.S. 266
Pacific Mail Company v. Lucas
Argued: March 10, 1922. --- Decided: March 27, 1922
Mr. Charles J. Heggerty, of San Francisco, Cal., for petitioner.
Mr. Frederick Clayton Peterson, of San Francisco, Cal., for respondent.
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