OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Cheer/Night

As some dusk mother shields from all alarms  The tired child she gathers to her breast, The brunette Night doth fold me in her arms,  And hushes me to perfect peace and rest. Her eyes of stars shine on me, and I hear Her voice of winds low crooning on my ear. O Night, O Night, how beautiful thou art! Come, fold me closer to thy pulsing heart.
The day is full of gladness, and the light  So beautifies the common outer things, I only see with my external sight,  And only hear the great world's voice which rings. But silently from daylight and from din The sweet Night draws me--whispers, "Look within!" And looking, as one wakened from a dream, I see what IS--no longer what doth seem.
The Night says, "Listen!" and upon my ear  Revealed, as are the visions to my sight, The voices known as "Beautiful" come near  And whisper of the vastly Infinite. Great, blue-eyed Truth, her sister Purity, Their brother Honour, all converse with me, And kiss my brow, and say, "Be brave of heart!" O holy three! how beautiful thou art!
The Night says, "Child, sleep that thou may'st arise  Strong for to-morrow's struggle." And I feel Her shadowy fingers pressing on my eyes:  Like thistledown I float to the Ideal - The Slumberland, made beautiful and bright As death, by dreams of loved ones gone from sight, O food for souls, sweet dreams of pure delight, How beautiful the holy hours of Night!
# Poems of Cheer/No Spring

Up from the South come the birds that were banished,  Frightened away by the presence of frost. Back to the vale comes the verdure that vanished,  Back to the forest the leaves that were lost. Over the hillside the carpet of splendour,  Folded through Winter, Spring spreads down again; Along the horizon, the tints that were tender,  Lost hues of Summer-time, burn bright as then.
Only the mountains' high summits are hoary,  To the ice-fettered river the sun gives a key. Once more the gleaming shore lists to the story  Told by an amorous Summer-kissed sea. All things revive that in Winter time perished,  The rose buds again in the light o' the sun, All that was beautiful, all that was cherished,  Sweet things and dear things and all things--save one.
Late, when the year and the roses were lying  Low with the ruins of Summer and bloom, Down in the dust fell a love that was dying,  And the snow piled over it, and made it a tomb. Lo! now the roses are budded for blossom -  Lo! now the Summer is risen again. Why dost thou bud not, O Love of my bosom?  Why dost thou rise not, and thrill me as then?
Life without love is a year without Summer,  Heart without love is a wood without song. Rise then, revive then, thou indolent comer:  Why dost thou lie in the dark earth so long? Rise! ah, thou can'st not! the rose-tree that sheddest  Its beautiful leaves, in the Springtime may bloom, But of cold things the coldest, of dead things the deadest,  Love buried once, rises not from the tomb. Green things may grow on the hillside and heather,  Birds seek the forest and build there and sing. All things revive in the beautiful weather,  But unto a dead love there cometh no Spring.
# Poems of Cheer/Midsummer

After the May time, and after the June time,  Rare with blossoms and perfumes sweet, Cometh the round world's royal noon time,  The red midsummer of blazing heat. When the sun, like an eye that never closes,  Bends on the earth its fervid gaze, And the winds are still, and the crimson roses  Droop and wither and die in its rays.
Unto my heart has come that season,  O my lady, my worshipped one, When over the stars of Pride and Reason  Sails Love's cloudless, noonday sun. Like a great red ball in my bosom burning  With fires that nothing can quench or tame. It glows till my heart itself seems turning  Into a liquid lake of flame.
The hopes half shy, and the sighs all tender,  The dreams and fears of an earlier day, Under the noontide's royal splendour,  Droop like roses and wither away. From the hills of doubt no winds are blowing,  From the isle of pain no breeze is sent. Only the sun in a white heat glowing  Over an ocean of great content.
Sink, O my soul, in this golden glory,  Die, O my heart, in thy rapture-swoon, For the Autumn must come with its mournful story,  And Love's midsummer will fade too soon.
# Poems of Cheer/Momus, God of Laughter

Though with gods the world is cumbered, Gods unnamed, and gods unnumbered, Never god was known to be Who had not his devotee. So I dedicate to mine, Here in verse, my temple-shrine.
'Tis not Ares,--mighty Mars, Who can give success in wars. 'Tis not Morpheus, who doth keep Guard above us while we sleep, 'Tis not Venus, she whose duty 'Tis to give us love and beauty; Hail to these, and others, after Momus, gleesome god of laughter.
Quirinus would guard my health, Plutus would insure me wealth; Mercury looks after trade, Hera smiles on youth and maid. All are kind, I own their worth, After Momus, god of mirth.
Though Apollo, out of spite, Hides away his face of light, Though Minerva looks askance, Deigning me no smiling glance, Kings and queens may envy me While I claim the god of glee.
Wisdom wearies, Love has wings - Wealth makes burdens, Pleasure stings, Glory proves a thorny crown - So all gifts the gods throw down Bring their pains and troubles after; All save Momus, god of laughter. He alone gives constant joy. Hail to Momus, happy boy.
# Poems of Cheer/My Home

This is the place that I love the best, A little brown house like a ground-bird's nest, Hid among grasses, and vines, and trees, Summer retreat of the birds and bees.
The tenderest light that ever was seen Sifts through the vine-made window screen - Sifts and quivers, and flits and falls On home-made carpets and gray-hung walls.
All through June, the west wind free The breath of the clover brings to me. All through the languid July day I catch the scent of the new-mown hay.
The morning glories and scarlet vine Over the doorway twist and twine; And every day, when the house is still, The humming-bird comes to the window-sill.
In the cunningest chamber under the sun I sink to sleep when the day is done; And am waked at morn, in my snow-white bed, By a singing-bird on the roof o'erhead.
Better than treasures brought from Rome Are the living pictures I see at home - My aged father, with frosted hair, And mother's face like a painting rare Far from the city's dust and heat, I get but sounds and odours sweet. Who can wonder I love to stay, Week after week, here hidden away, In this sly nook that I love the best - The little brown house, like a ground-bird's nest?
# Poems of Cheer/Life and I

Life and I are lovers, straying  Arm in arm along: Often like two children Maying,  Full of mirth and song,
Life plucks all the blooming hours  Growing by the way; Binds them on my brow like flowers,  Calls me Queen of May.
Then again, in rainy weather,  We sit vis-a-vis, Planning work we'll do together  In the years to be.
Sometimes Life denies me blisses,  And I frown or pout; But we make it up with kisses  Ere the day is out.
Woman-like, I sometimes grieve him,  Try his trust and faith, Saying I shall one day leave him  For his rival, Death.
Then he always grows more zealous,  Tender, and more true; Loves the more for being jealous,  As all lovers do.
Though I swear by stars above him,  And by worlds beyond, That I love him--love him--love him;  Though my heart is fond;
Though he gives me, doth my lover,  Kisses with each breath - I shall one day throw him over,  And plight troth with Death.
# Poems of Cheer/Little Blue Hood

Every morning and every night  There passes our window near the street, A little girl with an eye so bright,  And a cheek so round and a lip so sweet! The daintiest, jauntiest little miss That ever any one longed to kiss,
She is neat as wax, and fresh to view,  And her look is wholesome, and clean, and good. Whatever her gown, her hood is blue,  And so we call her our "Little Blue Hood," For we know not the name of the dear little lass, But we call to each other to see her pass,
"Little Blue Hood is coming now!"  And we watch from the window while she goes by, She has such a bonny, smooth, white brow,  And a fearless look in her long-lashed eye! And a certain dignity wedded to grace Seems to envelop her form and face.
Every morning, in sun or rain,  She walks by the window with sweet, grave air, And never guesses behind the pane  We two are watching and thinking her fair; Lovingly watching her down the street, Dear little Blue Hood, bright and sweet.
Somebody ties that hood of blue  Under the face so fair to see, Somebody loves her, beside we two,  Somebody kisses her--why can't we? Dear Little Blue Hood fresh and fair, Are you glad we love you, or don't you care?
# Poems of Cheer/Over the May Hill

All through the night time, and all through the day time,  Dreading the morning and dreading the night, Nearer and nearer we drift to the May time  Season of beauty and season of blight, Leaves on the linden, and sun on the meadow,  Green in the garden, and bloom everywhere, Gloom in my heart, and a terrible shadow,  Walks by me, sits by me, stands by my chair.
Oh, but the birds by the brooklet are cheery,  Oh, but the woods show such delicate greens, Strange how you droop and how soon you are weary -  Too well I know what that weariness means. But how could I know in the crisp winter weather  (Though sometimes I noticed a catch in your breath), Riding and singing and dancing together,  How could I know you were racing with death?
How could I know when we danced until morning,  And you were the gayest of all the gay crowd - With only that shortness of breath for a warning,  How could I know that you danced for a shroud? Whirling and whirling through moonlight and starlight.  Rocking as lightly as boats on the wave, Down in your eyes shone a deep light--a far light,  How could I know 'twas the light to your grave?
Day by day, day by day, nearing and nearing,  Hid under greenness, and beauty and bloom, Cometh the shape and the shadow I'm fearing,  "Over the May hill" is waiting your tomb. The season of mirth and of music is over -  I have danced my last dance, I have sung my last song, Under the violets, under the clover,  My heart and my love will be lying ere long
# Poems (Truesdell)/A Legend of the South

POEMS.
# Poems (Tree)/You Have Understood so Little of Me, and My Adoration

​FLAME
# Poems (Tree)/You Preach to Me of Laws, You Tie My Limbs

​ROCKETS AND ASHES
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/New Year's Eve

NEW-YEAR'S EVE.
i.
For I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year. It is the last New-year that I shall ever see, Then you may lay me low i' the mould and think no more of me.
ii.
The good old year, the dear old time, and all my peace of mind; And the New-year's coming up, mother, but I shall never see The blossom on the blackthorn, the leaf upon the tree.
iii.
Beneath the hawthorn on the green they made me Queen of May; And we danced about the may-pole and in the hazel copse, Till Charles's Wain came out above the tall white chimney-tops.
iv.
I only wish to live till the snowdrops come again: I wish the snow would melt and the sun come out on high: I long to see a flower so before the day I die.
v.
And the tufted plover pipe along the fallow lea, And the swallow 'ill come back again with summer o'er the wave, But I shall lie alone, mother, within the mouldering grave.
vi.
In the early early morning the summer sun 'ill shine, Before the red cock crows from the farm upon the hill, When you are warm-asleep, mother, and all the world is still.
vii.
You'll never see me more in the long gray fields at night; When from the dry dark wold the summer airs blow cool On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, and the bulrush in the pool.
viii.
And you'll come sometimes and see me where I am lowly laid. I shall not forget you, mother, I shall hear you when you pass, With your feet above my head in the long and pleasant grass.
ix.
You'll kiss me, my own mother, upon my cheek and brow; Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild, You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.
x.
Though you'll not see me, mother, I shall look upon your face; Though I cannot speak a word, I shall harken what you say, And be often, often with you when you think I'm far away.
xi.
And you see me carried out from the threshold of the door; Don't let Effie come to see me till my grave be growing green: She'll be a better child to you than ever I have been.
xii.
Let her take 'em: they are hers: I shall never garden more: But tell her, when I'm gone, to train the rose-bush that I set About the parlour-window and the box of mignonette.
xiii.
All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep at morn; But I would see the sun rise upon the glad New-year, So, if you're waking, call me, call me early, mother dear.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/Isabel

ISABEL.
Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed With the clear-pointed flame of chastity, Clear, without heat, undying, tended by Pure vestal thoughts in the translucent fane Of her still spirit; locks not wide dispread, Madonna-wise on either side her head; Sweet lips whereon perpetually did reign The summer calm of golden charity. Were fixed shadows of thy fixed mood. Revered Isabel, the crown and head, The stately flower of female fortitude. Of perfect wifehood and pure lowlihead.
The intuitive decision of a bright And thorough-edged intellect to part Error from crime; a prudence to withhold; The laws of marriage character'd in gold Upon the blanched tablets of her heart; A love still burning upward giving light To read those laws; an accent very low In blandishment, but a most silver flow Of subtle-paced counsel in distress, Right to the heart and brain, though undescried, Winning its way with extreme gentleness Thro' all the outworks of suspicious pride; A courage to endure and to obey; A hate of gossip parlance, and of sway, Crown'd Isabel, thro' all her placid life The queen of marriage, a most perfect wife.
The mellow'd reflex of a winter moon; A clear stream flowing with a muddy one, Till in its onward current it absorbs With swifter movement and in purer light The vexed eddies of its wayward brother;
A leaning and upbearing parasite, Clothing the stem, which else had fallen quite, With cluster’d flower-bells and ambrosial orbs Of rich fruit-bunches leaning on each other— Shadow forth thee: the world hath not another (Though all her fairest forms are types of thee, And thou of God in thy great charity) Of such a finish’d chasten’d purity.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/Lilian

LILIAN.
Airy, fairy Lilian, Flitting, fairy Lilian, When I ask her if she love me, Claps her tiny hands above me, Laughing all she can; She’ll not tell me if she love me, Cruel little Lilian.
When my passion seeks Pleasance in love-sighs, She, looking thro’ and thro’ me Thoroughly to undo me, Smiling, never speaks:
So innocent-arch, so cunning-simple, From beneath her gather'd wimple Glancing with black-beaded eyes, Till the lightning laughters dimple The baby-roses in her cheeks; Then away she flies.
Prythee weep, May Lilian! Gaiety without eclipse Wearieth me, May Lilian: Thro’ my very heart it thrilleth When from crimson-threaded lips Silver-treble laughter trilleth: Prythee weep, May Lilian.
Praying all I can, If prayers will not hush thee, Airy Lilian, Like a rose-leaf I will crush thee, Fairy Lilian.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/Madeline

MADELINE.
Thou art not steep'd in golden languors, No tranced summer calm is thine, Ever varying Madeline. Thro' light and shadow thou dost range, Sudden glances, sweet and strange, Delicious spites and darling angers, And airy forms of flitting change.
Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect in love-lore. Revealings deep and clear are thine Of wealthy smiles; but who may know Whether smile or frown be fleeter? Whether smile or frown be sweeter, Who may know?
Frowns perfect-sweet along the brow Light-glooming over eyes divine, Like little clouds sun-fringed, are thine, Ever varying Madeline. Thy smile and frown are not aloof From one another, Each to each is dearest brother; Hues of the silken sheeny woof Momently shot into each other. All the mystery is thine; Smiling, frowning, evermore, Thou art perfect in love-lore, Ever varying Madeline.
A subtle, sudden flame, By veering passion fann'd, About thee breaks and dances: When I would kiss thy hand, The flush of anger'd shame O'erflows thy calmer glances, And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown:
But when I turn away, Thou, willing me to stay, Wooest not, nor vainly wranglest; But, looking fixedly the while, All my bounding heart entanglest In a golden-nettled smile; Then in madness and in bliss, If my lips should dare to kiss Thy taper fingers amorously, Again thou blushest angrily; And o'er black brows drops down A sudden-curved frown.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/Mariana

MARIANA.
"Mariana in the moated grange."—-Measure for Measure.
i.
Were thickly crusted, one and all: The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the peach to the garden-wall. The broken sheds look'd sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange. She only said "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said "I am aweary, aweary; I would that I were dead!"
ii.
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried She could not look on the sweet heaven, Either at morn or eventide. After the flitting of the bats, When thickest dark did trance the sky, She drew her casement-curtain by, And glanced athwart the glooming flats. She only said "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said: She said "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
iii.
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow: The cock sung out an hour ere light: From the dark fen the oxen's low Came to her: without hope of change, In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn About the lonely moated grange. She only said, "The day is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
iv.
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept, And o'er it many, round and small, The cluster'd marish-mosses crept. Hard by a poplar shook alway, All silver-green with gnarled bark: For leagues no other tree did dark The level waste, the rounding gray. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
v.
And the shrill winds were up and away, In the white curtain, to and fro, She saw the gusty shadow sway. But when the moon was very low, And wild winds bound within their cell, The shadow of the poplar fell Upon her bed, across her brow. She only said, "The night is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
vi.
The doors upon their hinges creak'd; The blue fly sung i' the pane; the mouse Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd, Or from the crevice peer'd about. Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors, Old voices call'd her from without. She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "1 am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!"
vii.
The slow clock ticking, and the sound Which to the wooing wind aloof The poplar made, did all confound Her sense; but most she loath'd the hour When the thick-moted sunbeam lay Athwart the chambers, and the day Was sloping toward his western bower. Then said she, "I am very dreary, He will not come," she said; She wept, "I am aweary, aweary, Oh God, that I were dead!"
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/Mariana in the South

MARIANA IN THE SOUTH.
i.
The house thro' all the level shines, Close-latticed to the brooding heat, And silent in its dusty vines: A faint-blue ridge upon the right, An empty river-bed before, And shallows on a distant shore, In glaring sand and inlets bright. But "Ave Mary," made she moan, And "Ave Mary," night and morn, And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn."
ii.
From brow and bosom slowly down Thro' rosy taper fingers drew Her streaming curls of deepest brown To left and right, and made appear Still-lighted in a secret shrine, Her melancholy eyes divine, The home of woe without a tear. And "Ave Mary," was her moan, "Madonna, sad is night and morn," And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn."
iii.
Into deep orange o'er the sea, Low on her knees herself she cast, Before Our Lady murmur'd she;
Complaining, "Mother, give me grace To help me of my weary load." And on the liquid mirror glow'd The clear perfection of her face. "Is this the form," she made her moan, "That won his praises night and morn?" And "Ah," she said, "but I wake alone, I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn."
iv.
Nor any cloud would cross the vault, But day increased from heat to heat, On stony drought and steaming salt; Till now at noon she slept again, And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass, And heard her native breezes pass, And runlets babbling down the glen.
She breathed in sleep a lower moan, And murmuring, as at night and morn, She thought, "My spirit is here alone, Walks forgotten, and is forlorn."
v.
She felt he was and was not there. She woke: the babble of the stream Fell, and, without, the steady glare Shrank one sick willow sere and small. The river-bed was dusty-white; And all the furnace of the light Struck up against the blinding wall. She whisper'd, with a stifled moan More inward than at night or morn, "Sweet Mother, let me not here alone Live forgotten and die forlorn."
vi.
Old letters, breathing of her worth, For "Love," they said, "must needs be true, To what is loveliest upon earth." An image seem'd to pass the door, To look at her with slight, and say, "But now thy beauty flows away, So be alone for evermore." "O cruel heart," she changed her tone, "And cruel love, whose end is scorn, Is this the end to be left alone, To live forgotten, and die forlorn!"
vii.
An image seem'd to pass the door, To look into her eyes and say, "But thou shalt be alone no more."
And flaming downward over all From heat to heat the day decreased, And slowly rounded to the east The one black shadow from the wall. "The day to night," she made her moan, "The day to night, the night to morn, And day and night I am left alone To live forgotten, and love forlorn."
viii.
There came a sound as of the sea; Backward the lattice-blind she flung, And lean'd upon the balcony. There all in spaces rosy-bright Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears, And deepening thro' the silent spheres Heaven over Heaven rose the night.
And weeping then she made her moan, "The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn."
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/Fatima

FATIMA.
i.
O sun, that from thy noonday height Shudderest when I strain my sight, Throbbing thro' all thy heat and light, Lo, falling from my constant mind, Lo, parch'd and wither'd, deaf and blind, I whirl like leaves in roaring wind.
ii.
Below the city's eastern towers: I thirsted for the brooks, the showers: I rolled among the tender flowers: I crush'd them on my breast, my mouth: I look'd athwart the burning drouth Of that long desert to the south.
iii.
From my swift blood that went and came A thousand little shafts of flame Were shiver'd in my narrow frame. O Love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul thro' My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.
iv.
He cometh quickly: from below Sweet gales, as from deep gardens, blow Before him, striking on my brow. In my dry brain my spirit soon, Down-deepening from swoon to swoon, Faints like a dazzled morning moon.
v.
And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire;
And, isled in sudden seas of light, My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, Bursts into blossom in his sight.
vi.
All naked in a sultry sky, Droops blinded with his shining eye: I will possess him or will die. I will grow round him in his place, Grow, live, die looking on his face, Die, dying clasp'd in his embrace.