OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Bird of Time/Songs of Life/Death and Life

Death and Life
Death stroked my hair and whispered tenderly: "Poor child, shall I redeem thee from thy pain, Renew thy joy and issue thee again Inclosed in some renascent ecstasy . . . Some lilting bird or lotus-loving bee, Or the diaphanous silver of the rain, Th' alluring scent of the sirisha-plain, The wild wind's voice, the white wave's melody?"
I said, "Thy gentle pity shames mine ear, O Death, am I so purposeless a thing, Shall my soul falter or my body fear Its poignant hour of bitter suffering, Or fail ere I achieve my destined deed Of song or service for my country's need?"
# The Bird of Time/Songs of Life/Guerdon

Guerdon
To field and forest The gifts of the spring, To hawk and to heron The pride of their wing; Her grace to the panther, Her tints to the dove. . . For me, O my Master, The rapture of Love!
To the hand of the diver The gems of the tide, To the eyes of the bridegroom The face of his bride;
To the heart of a dreamer The dreams of his youth. . . For me, O my Master, The rapture of Truth!
To priests and to prophets The joy of their creeds, To kings and their cohorts The glory of deeds; And peace to the vanquished And hope to the strong. . . . For me, O my Master, The rapture of Song!
Printed by BALLANTYNE & COMPANY LTD AT THE BALLANTYNE PRESS Tavistock Street Covent Garden London
# The Bird of Time/Songs of Life

Songs of Life
# The Bird of Time/Songs of Life/In the Night

In the Night
Sleep, O my little ones, sleep, Safe till the daylight be breaking . . . We have long vigils to keep, Harvests to sow while you sleep, Fair for the hour of your waking, Ripe for your sickles to reap.
Sleep, O my little ones, sleep, Yours is the golden To-morrow, Yours are the hands that will reap Dreams that we sow while you sleep, Fed with our hope and our sorrow, Rich with the tears that we weep.
# The Bird of Time/Songs of Life/Medley — A Kashmeri Song

Medley A Kashmeri Song
The poppy grows on the roof-top, The iris flowers on the grave; Hope in the heart of a lover, And fear in the heart of a slave.
The opal lies in the river, The pearl in the ocean's breast; Doubt in a grieving bosom, And faith in a heart at rest.
Fireflies dance in the moon-light, Peach-leaves dance in the wind; Dreams and delicate fancies Dance thro' a poet's mind.
Sweetness dwells in the beehive, And lives in a maiden's breath; Joy in the eyes of children And peace in the hands of Death.
# The Bird of Time/Songs of Life/A Challenge to Fate

A Challenge to Fate
Why will you vex me with your futile conflict, Why will you strive with me, O foolish Fate? You cannot break me with your poignant envy, You cannot slay me with your subtle hate: For all the cruel folly you pursue I will not cry with suppliant hands to you.
You may perchance wreck in your bitter malice The radiant empire of mine eager eyes . . . Say, can you rob my memory's dear dominion O'er sunlit mountains and sidereal skies? In my enduring treasuries I hold Their ageless splendour of unravished gold.
You may usurp the kingdoms of my hearing . . . Say, shall my scatheless spirit cease to hear
The bridal rapture of the blowing valleys, The lyric pageant of the passing year, The sounding odes and surging harmonies Of battling tempests and unconquered seas?
Yea, you may smite my mouth to throbbing silence, Pluck from my lips power of articulate words . . . Say, shall my heart lack its familiar language While earth has nests for her mellifluous birds? Shall my impassioned heart forget to sing With the ten thousand voices of the spring?
Yea, you may quell my blood with sudden anguish, Fetter my limbs with some compelling pain . . . How will you daunt my free, far-journeying fancy That rides upon the pinions of the rain? How will you tether my triumphant mind, Rival and fearless comrade of the wind?
•••••Tho' you deny the hope of all my being, Betray my love, my sweetest dream destroy, Yet will I slake my individual sorrow At the deep source of Universal joy. . . . O Fate, in vain you hanker to control My frail, serene, indomitable soul.
# The Bird of Time/Songs of Life/At Dawn

At Dawn
Children, my children, the daylight is breaking, The cymbals of morn sound the hour of your waking, The long night is o'er, and our labour is ended,
Fair blow the fields that we tilled and we tended, Swiftly the harvest grows mellow for reaping, The harvest we sowed in the time of your sleeping.
Weak were our hands but our service was tender, In darkness we dreamed of the dawn of your splendour, In silence we strove for the joy of the morrow, And watered your seeds from the wells of our sorrow, We toiled to enrich the glad hour of your waking, Our vigil is done, lo ! the daylight is breaking.
Children, my children, who wake to inherit The ultimate hope of our travailing spirit, Say, when your young hearts shall take to their keeping The manifold dreams we have sown for your reaping, Is it praise, is it pain you will grant us for guerdon? Anoint with your love or arraign with your pardon?
# The Bird of Time/Songs of Life/Farewell

Farewell
Bright shower of lambent butterflies, Soft cloud of murmuring bees, O fragile storm of sighing leaves Adrift upon the breeze!
Wild birds with eager wings outspread To seek an alien sky, Sweet comrades of a lyric spring. My little songs, good-bye !
# The Bird of Time/Songs of Life/In Salutation to the Eternal Peace

In Salutation to the Eternal Peace
Men say the world is full of fear and hate, And all life's ripening harvest-fields await The restless sickle of relentless fate.
But I, sweet Soul, rejoice that I was born, When from the climbing terraces of corn I watch the golden orioles of Thy morn.
What care I for the world's desire and pride, Who know the silver wings that gleam and glide, The homing pigeons of Thine eventide?
What care I for the world's loud weariness, Who dream in twilight granaries Thou dost bless With delicate sheaves of mellow silences?
Say, shall I heed dull presages of doom, Or dread the rumoured loneliness and gloom, The mute and mythic terror of the tomb?
For my glad heart is drunk and drenched with Thee, O inmost wine of living ecstasy! O intimate essence of eternity!
# The Beautifull Cassandra/Dedication

Written when the author was aged 13.
Dedicated by permission to Miss Austen
Madam,
You are a Phoenix. You taste is refined, you Sentiments noble, & your Virtues innumerable. Your Person is lovely, your Figure, elegant, & your Form, majestic. Your manners are polished, your Conversation is rational & your appearance singular. If therefore the following Tale will afford one moment's amusement to you, every wish will be gratified of
your most obedient humble Servant The Author
# The Beautifull Cassandra/Chapter 6

Written when the author was aged 13. Accompanying illustration omitted.
Being returned to the same spot of the same Street she had sate out from, the Coachman demanded his Pay.
# The Beautifull Cassandra/Chapter 7

Written when the author was aged 13. Accompanying illustration omitted.
She searched her pockets over again & again; but every search was unsuccessfull. No money could she find. The man grew peremptory. She placed her bonnet on his head & ran away.
# The Beautifull Cassandra/Chapter 9

Written when the author was aged 13. Accompanying illustration omitted.
Cassandra started & Maria seemed surprised; they trembled, blushed, turned pale & passed each other in a mutual silence.
# The Beautifull Cassandra/Chapter 5

Written when the author was aged 13. Accompanying illustration omitted.
She next ascended a Hackney Coach & ordered it to Hampstead, where she was no sooner arrived than she ordered the Coachman to turn around & drive her back again.
# The Beautifull Cassandra/Chapter 8

Written when the author was aged 13. Accompanying illustration omitted.
Thro' many a Street she then proceeded & met in none the least Adventure till on turning a Corner of Bloomsbury Square, she met Maria.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 006

threadbare cuffedge he saw the sea hailed as a great sweet mother by the wellfed voice beside him. The ring of bay and skyline held a dull green mass of liquid. A bowl of white china had stood beside her deathbed holding the green sluggish bile which she had torn up from her rotting liver by fits of loud groaning vomiting.
Buck Mulligan wiped again his razorblade.
— Ah, poor dogsbody, he said in a kind voice. I must give you a shirt and a few noserags. How are the secondhand breeks?
— They fit well enough, Stephen answered.
Buck Mulligan attacked the hollow beneath his underlip.
— The mockery of it, he said contentedly, secondleg they should be. God knows what poxy bowsy left them off. I have a lovely pair with a hair stripe, grey. You’ll look spiffing in them. I’m not joking, Kinch. You look damn well when you’re dressed.
— Thanks, Stephen said. I can’t wear them if they are grey.
— He can’t wear them, Buck Mulligan told his face in the mirror. Eti- quette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can’t wear grey trousers.
He folded his razor neatly and with stroking palps of fingers felt the smooth skin.
Stephen turned his gaze from the sea and to the plump face with its smokeblue mobile eyes.
— That fellow I was with in the Ship last night, said Buck Mulligan says you have g.p.i. He’s up in Dottyville with Conolly Norman. Genera paralysis of the insane.
He swept the mirror a half circle in the air to flash the tidings abroad in sunlight now radiant on the sea. His curling shaven lips laughed and the edges of his white glittering teeth. Laughter seized all his strong wellknit trunk.
— Look at yourself, he said, you dreadful bard.
Stephen bent forward and peered at the mirror held out to him, cleft by a crooked crack, hair on end. As he and others see me. Who chose this face for me? This dogsbody to rid of vermin. It asks me too.
— I pinched it out of the skivvy’s room, Buck Mulligan said. It does her all right. The aunt always keeps plainlooking servants for Malachi. Lead him not into temptation. And her name is Ursula.
Laughing again, he brought the mirror away from Stephen’s peering eyes.
— The rage of Caliban at not seeing his face in a mirror, he said. If Wilde were only alive to see you.

## Annotations

A character in Shakespeare's The Tempest.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 010

Her secrets : old feather fans, tassled dancecards, powdered with musk, a gaud of amber beads in her locked drawer. A birdcage hung in the sunny window of her house when she was a girl. She heard old Royce sing in the pantomine of Turko the terrible and laughed with others when he sang:
             I am the boy
             That can enjoy
             Invisibility.
Phantasmal mirth, folded away : muskperfumed.
             And no more turn aside and brood.
Folded away in the memory of nature with her toys. Memories beset his brooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had approached the sacrament. A cored apple, filled with brown sugar, roasting for her at the hob on a dark autumn evening. Her shapely fingernails reddened by the blood of squashed lice from the children’s shirts.
In a dream, silently, she had come to him, her wasted body within its loose graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath bent over him with mute secret words, a faint odour of wetted ashes.
Her glazing eyes, staring out of death, to shake and bend my soul. On me alone. The ghostcandle to light her agony. Ghostly light on the tortured face. Her hoarse loud breath rattling in horror, while all prayed on their knees. Her eyes on me to strike me down. Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet : iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat.
Ghoul! Chewer of corpses!
No, mother. Let me be and let me live.
— Kinch ahoy!
Buck Mulligan’s voice sang from within the tower. It came nearer up the staircase, calling again. Stephen, still trembling at his soul’s cry, heard warm running sunlight and in the air behind him friendly words.
— Dedalus, come down, like a good mosey. Breakfast is ready. Haines is apologising for waking us last night. It’s all right.
— I’m coming, Stephen said, turning.
— Do, for Jesus’ sake, Buck Mulligan said. For my sake and for all our sakes.

## Annotations

"Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat." "May the crowd of joyful confessors encompass thee; may the choir of blessed virgins go before thee." Phrase spoken during the Recommendation of a Soul Departing.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 012

He howled without looking up from the fire:
— Kinch!
— It’s in the lock, Stephen said, coming forward.
The key scraped round harshly twice and, when the heavy door had been set ajar, welcome light and bright air entered. Haines stood at the doorway, looking out. Stephen haled his upended valise to the table and sat down to wait. Buck Mulligan tossed the fry on to the dish beside him. Then he carried the dish and a large teapot over to the table, set them down heavily and sighed with relief.
— I’m melting, he said, as the candle remarked when … But hush. Not a word more on that subject. Kinch, wake up. Bread, butter, honey. Haines, come in. The grub is ready. Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts. Where’s the sugar? O, jay, there’s no milk.
Stephen fetched the loaf and the pot of honey and the buttercooler from the locker. Buck Mulligan sat down in a sudden pet.
— What sort of a kip is this? he said. I told her to come after eight.
— We can drink it black, Stephen said. There’s a lemon in the locker.
— O, damn you and your Paris fads, Buck Mulligan said. I want Sandycove milk.
Haines came in from the doorway and said quietly:
— That woman is coming up with the milk.
— The blessings of God on you, Buck Mulligan cried, jumping up from his chair. Sit down. Pour out the tea there. The sugar is in the bag. Here, I can’t go fumbling at the damned eggs. He hacked through the fry on the dish and slapped it out on three plates, saying:
— In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.
Haines sat down to pour out the tea.
— I’m giving you two lumps each, he said. But, I say, Mulligan, you do make strong tea, don’t you?
Buck Mulligan, hewing thick slices from the loaf, said in an old woman’s wheedling voice:
— When I makes tea I makes tea, as old mother Grogan said. And when I makes water I makes water.
— By Jove, it is tea, Haines said.
Buck Mulligan went on hewing and wheedling:
— So I do, Mrs Cahill, says she. Begob, ma’am, says Mrs Cahill, God send you don’t make them in the one pot.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 014

milk, not hers. Old shrunken paps. She poured again a measureful and a tilly. Old and secret she had entered from a morning world, maybe a messenger. She praised the goodness of the milk, pouring it out. Crouching by a patient cow at daybreak in the lush field, a witch on her toadstool, her wrinkled fingers quick at the squirting dugs. They lowed about her whom they knew, dewsilky cattle. Silk of the kine and poor old woman, names given her in old times. A wandering crone, lowly form of an immortal serving her conqueror and her gay betrayer, their common cuckquean, a messenger from the secret morning. To serve or to upbraid, whether he could not tell : but scorned to beg her favour.
— It is indeed, ma’am, Buck Mulligan said, pouring milk into their cups.
— Taste it, sir, she said.
He drank at her bidding.
— If we could only live on good food like that, he said to her somewhat loudly, we wouldn’t have the country full of rotten teeth and rotten guts. Living in a bogswamp, eating cheap food and the streets paved with dust, horsedung and consumptives’ spits.
— Are you a medical student, sir? the old woman asked.
— I am, ma’am, Buck Mulligan answered.
Stephen listened in scornful silence. She bows her old head to a voice that speaks to her loudly, her bonesetter, her medicineman; me she slights. To the voice that will shrive and oil for the grave all there is of her but her woman’s unclean loins, of man’s flesh made not in God’s likeness the serpent’s prey. And to the loud voice that now bids her be silent with wondering unsteady eyes.
— Do you understand what he says? Stephen asked her.
— Is it French you are talking, sir? the old woman said to Haines.
Haines spoke to her again a longer speech, confidently.
— Irish, Buck Mulligan said. Is there Gaelic on you?
— I thought it was Irish, she said, by the sound of it. Are you from west, sir?
— I am an Englishman, Haines answered.
— He’s English, Buck Mulligan said, and he thinks we ought to speak Irish in Ireland.
— Sure we ought to, the old woman said, and I’m ashamed I don’t speak the language myself. I’m told it’s a grand language by them that knows.
— Grand is no name for it, said Buck Mulligan. Wonderful entirely. Fill us out some more tea, Kinch. Would you like a cup, ma’am?
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 011

His head disappeared and reappeared.
— I told him your symbol of Irish art. He says it’s very clever. Touch him for a quid, will you? A guinea, I mean.
— I get paid this morning, Stephen said.
— The school kip? Buck Mulligan said. How much? Four quid? Lend us one.
— If you want it, Stephen said.
— Four shining sovereigns, Buck Mulligan cried with delight. We’ll have a glorious drunk to astonish the druidy druids. Four omnipotent sovereigns.
He flung up his hands and tramped down the stone stairs, singing out of tune with a Cockney accent:
                O, won’t we have a merry time,
                Drinking whisky, beer and wine,
                On coronation
                Coronation day?
                O, won’t we have a merry time
                On coronation day?
Warm sunshine merrying over the sea. The nickel shavingbowl shone, forgotten, on the parapet. Why should I bring it down? Or leave it there all day, forgotten friendship?
He went over to it, held it in his hands awhile, feeling its coolness, smelling the clammy slaver of the lather in which the brush was stuck. So I carried the boat of incense then at Clongowes. I am another now and yet the same. A servant too. A server of a servant.
In the gloomy domed livingroom of the tower Buck Mulligan’s gowned form moved briskly about the hearth to and fro, hiding and revealing its yellow glow. Two shafts of soft daylight fell across the flagged floor from the high barbacans : and at the meeting of their rays a cloud of coalsmoke and fumes of fried grease floated, turning.
— We’ll be choked, Buck Mulligan said. Haines, open that door, will you? Stephen laid the shavingbowl on the locker. A tall figure rose from the hammock where it had been sitting, went to the doorway and pulled open the inner doors.
— Have you the key? a voice asked.
— Dedalus has it, Buck Mulligan said. Janey Mack, I’m choked.
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 009

— Of the offence to me, Stephen answered.
Buck Mulligan swung round on his heel.
— O, an impossible person! he exclaimed.
He walked off quickly round the parapet. Stephen stood at his post, gazing over the calm sea towards the headland. Sea and headland now grew dim. Pulses were beating in his eyes, veiling their sight, and he felt the fever of his cheeks.
A voice within the tower called loudly:
— Are you up there, Mulligan?
— I’m coming, Buck Mulligan answered.
He turned towards Stephen and said:
— Look at the sea. What does it care about offences? Chuck Loyola, Kinch, and come on down. The Sassenach wants his morning rashers.
His head halted again for a moment at the top of the staircase, level with the roof.
— Don’t mope over it all day, he said. I’m inconsequent. Give up the moody brooding.
His head vanished but the drone of his descending voice boomed out of the stairhead:
                And no more turn aside and brood
                Upon love’s bitter mystery
                For Fergus rules the brazen cars.
Woodshadows floated silently by through the morning peace from the stairhead seaward where he gazed. Inshore and farther out the mirror of water whitened, spurned by lightshod hurrying feet. White breast of the dim sea. The twining stresses, two by two. A hand plucking the harpstrings merg- ing their twining chords. Wavewhite wedded words shimmering on the dim tide.
A cloud began to cover the sun slowly, shadowing the bay in deeper green. It lay behind him, a bowl of bitter waters. Fergus’ song : I sang it above in the house, holding down the long dark chords. Her door was open : she wanted to hear my music. Silent with awe and pity I went to her bedside. She was crying in her wretched bed. For those words, Stephen : love’s bitter mystery.
Where now?

## Annotations

"And no more turn aside . . ."
Lines from W. B. Yeats' poem "Who goes with Fergus?": "And no more turn aside and brood/ Upon love's bitter mystery;/ For Fergus rules the brazen cars; . . ." (Cf. also the "Proteus" episode, Page 049).
# The Annotated "Ulysses"/Page 005

— Scutter, he cried thickly.
He came over to the gunrest and, thrusting a hand into Stephen’s upper pocket, said:
— Lend us a loan of your noserag to wipe my razor.
Stephen suffered him to pull out and hold up on show by its corner a dirty crumpled handkerchief. Buck Mulligan wiped the razorblade neatly. Then, gazing over the handkerchief, he said:
— The bard’s noserag. A new art colour for our Irish poets : snotgreen. You can almost taste it, can’t you?
He mounted to the parapet again and gazed out over Dublin bay, his fair oakpale hair stirring slightly.
— God, he said quietly. Isn’t the sea what Algy calls it : a great sweet mother? The snotgreen sea. The scrotumtightening sea. Epi oinopa ponton. Ah, Dedalus, the Greeks. I must teach you. You must read them in the original. Thalatta! Thalatta! She is our great sweet mother. Come and look.
Stephen stood up and went over to the parapet. Leaning on it he looked down on the water and on the mailboat clearing the harbour mouth of Kingstown.
— Our mighty mother, Buck Mulligan said.
He turned abruptly his great searching eyes from the sea to Stephen’s face.
— The aunt thinks you killed your mother, he said. That’s why she won’t let me have anything to do with you.
— Someone killed her, Stephen said gloomily.
— You could have knelt down, damn it, Kinch, when your dying mother asked you, Buck Mulligan said. I’m hyperborean as much as you. But to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray for her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you…
He broke off and lathered again lightly his farther cheek. A tolerant smile curled his lips.
— But a lovely mummer, he murmured to himself. Kinch, the loveliest mummer of them all.
He shaved evenly and with care, in silence, seriously.
Stephen, an elbow rested on the jagged granite, leaned his palm against his brow and gazed at the fraying edge of his shiny black coatsleeve. Pain, that was not yet the pain of love, fretted his heart. Silently, in a dream she had come to him after her death, her wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes. Across the

## Annotations

Swinburne, who calls the sea this in his poem The Triumph of Time
Greek: Over the wine-dark sea, a phrase from Homer's Odyssey.
Greek: The sea! The sea! The cry of the 10,000 Greeks when they see the sea again after a march, from Xenophon's Anabasis.
In Greek mythology, the Hyperboreans were a mythical people who lived far to the north.