OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/Haze

HAZE
Woof of the sun, ethereal gauze, Woven of Nature's richest stuffs, Visible heat, air-water, and dry sea, Last conquest of the eye; Toil of the day displayed, sun-dust, Aerial surf upon the shores of earth, Ethereal estuary, frith of light, Breakers of air, billows of heat, Fine summer spray on inland seas; Bird of the sun, transparent-winged, Owlet of noon, soft-pinioned, From heath or stubble rising without song,— Establish thy serenity o'er the fields.
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/Independence

INDEPENDENCE
My life more civil is and free Than any civil polity.
Ye princes, keep your realms And circumscribèd power, Not wide as are my dreams, Nor rich as is this hour.
What can ye give which I have not? What can ye take which I have got? Can ye defend the dangerless? Can ye inherit nakedness?
​To all true wants Time's ear is deaf, Penurious States lend no relief Out of their pelf: But a free soul—thank God— Can help itself.
Be sure your fate Doth keep apart its state,— Not linked with any band, Even the noblest in the land,—
In tented fields with cloth of gold No place doth hold, But is more chivalrous than they are, And sigheth for a nobler war; A finer strain its trumpet rings, A brighter gleam its armor flings.
​The life that I aspire to live, No man proposeth me; No trade upon the street Wears its emblazonry.
* ↑ First printed in full in the Boston Commonwealth, October 30, 1863. The last fourteen lines had appeared in the Dial under the title of 'The Black Knight,' and are so reprinted in the Riverside Edition.
* ↑ In the Dial this line runs, 'Only the promise of my heart.'
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/Inspiration

INSPIRATION
Whate'er we leave to God, God does, And blesses us; The work we choose should be our own, God leaves alone.
If with light head erect I sing, Though all the Muses lend their force, From my poor love of anything, The verse is weak and shallow as its source.
But if with bended neck I grope Listening behind me for my wit, With faith superior to hope, More anxious to keep back than forward it;
​Making my soul accomplice there Unto the flame my heart hath lit, Then will the verse for ever wear— Time cannot bend the line which God hath writ.
Always the general show of things Floats in review before my mind, And such true love and reverence brings, That sometimes I forget that I am blind.
But now there comes unsought, unseen, Some clear divine electuary, And I, who had but sensual been, Grow sensible, and as God is, am wary.
I hearing get, who had but ears, And sight, who had but eyes before, ​I moments live, who lived but years, And truth discern, who knew but learning's lore.
I hear beyond the range of sound, I see beyond the range of sight, New earths and skies and seas around, And in my day the sun doth pale his light.
A clear and ancient harmony Pierces my soul through all its din, As through its utmost melody,— Farther behind than they, farther within.
More swift its bolt than lightning is, Its voice than thunder is more loud, It doth expand my privacies To all, and leave me single in the crowd.
​It speaks with such authority, With so serene and lofty tone, That idle Time runs gadding by, And leaves me with Eternity alone.
Now chiefly is my natal hour, And only now my prime of life, Of manhood's strength it is the flower, 'Tis peace's end and war's beginning strife.
It comes in summer's broadest noon, By a grey wall or some chance place, Unseasoning Time, insulting June, And vexing day with its presuming face.
Such fragrance round my couch it makes, More rich than are Arabian drugs, ​That my soul scents its life and wakes The body up beneath its perfumed rugs.
Such is the Muse, the heavenly maid, The star that guides our mortal course, Which shows where life's true kernel 's laid, Its wheat's fine flour, and its undying force.
She with one breath attunes the spheres, And also my poor human heart, With one impulse propels the years Around, and gives my throbbing pulse its start.
I will not doubt for evermore, Nor falter from a steadfast faith, ​For though the system be turned o'er, God takes not back the word which once he saith.
I will not doubt the love untold Which not my worth nor want has bought, Which wooed me young, and wooes me old, And to this evening hath me brought.
My memory I'll educate To know the one historic truth, Remembering to the latest date The only true and sole immortal youth.
Be but thy inspiration given, No matter through what danger sought, ​I'll fathom hell or climb to heaven, And yet esteem that cheap which love has bought.
Fame cannot tempt the bard Who's famous with his God, Nor laurel him reward Who has his Maker's nod.
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/Lines (1)

LINES
Though all the Fates should prove unkind, Leave not your native land behind. The ship, becalmed, at length stands still; The steed must rest beneath the hill; But swiftly still our fortunes pace To find us out in every place.
The vessel, though her masts be firm, Beneath her copper bears a worm; Around the Cape, across the Line, Till fields of ice her course confine; It matters not how smooth the breeze, How shallow or how deep the seas, ​Whether she bears Manilla twine, Or in her hold Madeira wine, Or China teas, or Spanish hides, In port or quarantine she rides; Far from New England's blustering shore, New England's worm her hulk shall bore, And sink her in the Indian seas,— Twine, wine, and hides, and China teas.
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/Lines (2)

LINES
All things are current found On earthly ground, Spirits and elements Have their descents.
Night and day, year on year, High and low, far and near, These are our own aspects, These are our own regrets.
Ye gods of the shore, Who abide evermore, I see your far headland, Stretching on either hand;
​I hear the sweet evening sounds From your undecaying grounds; Cheat me no more with time, Take me to your clime.
# Poems of Nature (Thoreau)/Mountains

MOUNTAINS
With frontier strength ye stand your ground, With grand content ye circle round, Tumultuous silence for all sound, Ye distant nursery of rills, Monadnock, and the Peterborough hills;— Firm argument that never stirs, Outcircling the philosophers,— Like some vast fleet Sailing through rain and sleet, Through winter's cold and summer's heat; Still holding on upon your high emprise, Until ye find a shore amid the skies; Not skulking close to land, With cargo contraband; ​For they who sent a venture out by ye Have set the Sun to see Their honesty. Ships of the line, each one, Ye westward run, Convoying clouds, Which cluster in your shrouds, Always before the gale, Under a press of sail, With weight of metal all untold;— I seem to feel ye in my firm seat here, Immeasurable depth of hold, And breadth of beam, and length of running gear.
Methinks ye take luxurious pleasure In your novel western leisure; ​So cool your brows and freshly blue, As Time had nought for ye to do; For ye lie at your length, An unappropriated strength, Unhewn primeval timber For knees so stiff, for masts so limber, The stock of which new earths are made, One day to be our western trade, Fit for the stanchions of a world Which through the seas of space is hurled.
While we enjoy a lingering ray, Ye still o'ertop the western day, Reposing yonder on God's croft, Like solid stacks of hay. So bold a line as ne'er was writ On any page by human wit; ​The forest glows as if An enemy's camp-fires shone Along the horizon, Or the day's funeral pyre Were lighted there; Edged with silver and with gold, The clouds hang o'er in damask fold, And with fresh depth of amber light The west is dight, Where still a few rays slant, That even Heaven seems extravagant. Watatic Hill Lies on the horizon's sill Like a child's toy left overnight, And other duds to left and right; On the earth's edge, mountains and trees Stand as they were on air graven, ​Or as the vessels in a haven Await the morning breeze. I fancy even Through your defiles windeth the way to heaven; And yonder still, in spite of history's page, Linger the golden and the silver age; Upon the laboring gale The news of future centuries is brought, And of new dynasties of thought, From your remotest vale.
But special I remember thee, Wachusett, who like me Standest alone without society. Thy far blue eye, A remnant of the sky, Seen through the clearing of the gorge, ​Or from the windows of the forge, Doth leaven all it passes by. Nothing is true, But stands 'tween me and you, Thou western pioneer, Who know'st not shame nor fear, By venturous spirit driven Under the eaves of heaven, And canst expand thee there, And breathe enough of air. Even beyond the West Thou migratest Into unclouded tracts, Without a pilgrim's axe, Cleaving thy road on high With thy well-tempered brow, And mak'st thyself a clearing in the sky. ​Upholding heaven, holding down earth, Thy pastime from thy birth, Not steadied by the one, nor leaning on the other;— May I approve myself thy worthy brother!
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 14

Scans
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# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 39/September 1891/Obituary Notes

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Dr. Richard Schomburgk, Director of the Botanic Gardens at Adelaide, South Australia, has recently died there. He was associated with his brother, the late Sir Robert Schomburgk, in the Boundary Demarkation of British Guiana in 1840; some years later settled in South Australia as a farmer and wine-grower; became Director of the Botanic Garden in 1866; founded the Museum of Economic Botany, and was an eminent horticulturist. He was author of a hook in German of travels in British Guiana, in which were embodied a flora and fauna of the country; of Botanical Reminiscences of British Guiana; and of papers on the agricultural and horticultural capabilities of South Australia and the Botanic Garden.
The death is announced of Prof. Weber, of Göttingen, the celebrated physicist. He was born in 1802. His first scientific publication was the Theory of Modulations (Leipsic, 1825). Being a liberal in politics, he was turned out of his professorship by King Ernest of Saxony. lie soon afterward began to devote himself to magnetism, gave a new impulse to the study of electricity in Germany, and became one of the first authorities on the subject in Europe. He was restored to his chair at Göttingen in 1849, and resided there for the rest of his life.
Prof. Carl Wilhelm von Nagelli, an eminent German botanist, died at Munich, May 10th, in the seventy-fourth year of his age.
Sir John Hawkshaw, an eminent English engineer, died in London, June 2d, in his eighty-first year. He was President of the Institution of Civil Engineers in 1862-1863, and of the British Association at its Bristol meeting in 1875. his greatest engineering feat was the construction of the Severn Tunnel.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 35/May 1889/Obituary Notes

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The Rev. John George Wood, one of the most popular and instructive of natural history writers, died March 3d, while on a visit to Coventry, England. He was born in London, the son of a surgeon, in 1827, and was graduated from Merton College, Oxford, in 1848. lie served for two years in the Anatomical Museum at Christ Church, Oxford; held two chaplaincies, and was Precentor of the Canterbury Diocesan Choral Union. His best efforts were given to his books, most of which were on natural history. The chief of them was his large "Natural History," in three volumes; the best known, the "Common Objects of the Seashore." Among the others, besides those of the "Common Objects" series, were his "Popular Natural History," "Sketches and Anecdotes of Animal Life," "The Boys' Own Natural History Book," "My Feathered Friends," "Homes without Hands," "Insects at Home," "Our Garden Friends and Foes," several educational works, and a series of "Natural History Readers" for schools. He edited for some time "The Boys' Own Magazine," and was a popular lecturer.
Sir William O'Shaughnessy Brooke, F.R.S., who was distinguished by his connection with electric telegraphs, died in England in January. He was Director-General of Telegraphs in India for ten years, and received a knighthood for his services in establishing telegraphs in that empire.
Alexander Pagenstecher, Director of the Museum of Natural History at Hamburg, died January 5th, of heart-disease, in his sixty-fourth year. lie was for many years Professor of Zoölogy at Heidelberg, and was the author of a well-known work on "Universal Zoölogy" ("Allgemeine Zoologie") in four volumes (1875-1881).
Dr. Johannes Brock, appointed Professor of Natural Science at Göttingen, has recently died there. He was formerly Professor of Zoölogy at Dorpat, and was well known by reason of a scientific journey to the Indian Archipelago which he undertook under the auspices of the Berlin Academy.
Dr. J. Soyka, Professor of the German University of Prague, and formerly of the University of Munich, and author of books on bacteria, died by suicide, February 23d.
Captain John Ericsson, the inventor of the caloric engine, the Monitor, and other useful or warlike agents, died in this city, March 8th, in the eighty-sixth year of his age. He was a native of Sweden and came of a family of engineers. He showed his inventive capacity at an early age. He came to this country in 1839, and two years afterward began the Princeton, the first naval vessel to carry her machinery under the water-line and out of the reach of the enemy's shot. His name is also identified with the invention of the submarine boat Destroyer, sun motor, and submarine motor; and some of his unpatented inventions are in the hands of the Delamater Iron Company.
The Rev. Dr. Churchill Babington, an English botanist, died January 12th, at Cockfield Rectory. He was a contributor to Sir J. Hooker's "Journal of Botany and Kew Miscellany."
# Poems by "Cushag"/Bons

BONS.
It'll be in the teens of years I'm livin' here alone, An' the house is bare at me, too, like a ness when the birds is flown; But the days is lonelier far pas' what it is in the night, For then I'm stirrin' the bons till the house is full of light.
And then I'm seein' the lumpers all playin' about on the flure, With pussy-bogh sthretchin' her back, and Daa comin' in on the dhure; An' a long little family at us, Henery, John, an' Lil, An' wan that was took at the Angels, an' Miriam Maud, an' Bill.
Henery went for a sailor, an' the ship went down in the night, But I'm seein' him readin' his book when the bons is burnin' bright; An' I'm feelin' me fut for the cradle, an' the tear dhroppin' down from the eye, For the wan that was took at the Angels when I hadn't no time to cry.
Johnny was studdy uncommon, an' terrible fon' of the lan', An' helpin' Daa with the bases an' givin' us all a han'; Billy an' him went foreign—I h'ard they were doin' well, But, the name of the place they was to, is beatin' all to tell.
The gels is married on farmers, an' bringin' a boy or a chile For to see th' oul' granny an' all, an' he rared at me here for a while; But I'm all as well by myself, for then in the mids of the night I can stir up the bons on the chiollagh till the house is full of light.
An' I sit with a fut on the cradle till the blaze is dyin' down, An' the childher goin' a-mixin' with the shaddas creepenin' roun'; I'm watchin' wan an' another, an' always her that was took, An' Daa comin' in on the dhure, an' Henery readin' his book.
# Poems by "Cushag"/Bobby

"BOBBY."
POOR Bobby, he thravelled from dhure to dhure, An’ each wan gev him a piece;
He'd ress on the settle or lie on the flure,
An' a bit of dhry bread was a feas'.
He had his oul' cot an' a bit of a turf,
To keep out the couth of the night;
But it's up he'd be an' down at the surf,
As soon as the morning was light.
There's wans would be urging him out to the Brows,
To be fetchin' their cattle in,
But Bobby'd be heavin' hard words at the cows,
'Twas makin' his sowl to sin.
Poor Bobby lay down on his dying bed,
An' "Wumman," we heard him say,
"Put out them boots an' that piece of bread,
For I'm goin' a long, long way."
The bread was a piece of a barley cake,
The las' his Mother had made,
Kep' by him these years for his Mother's sake,
In the chiss with her Bible laid.
We lef him good-night when our work was done,
An' sof' we went out on the dhure;
An' behoul' ye, next mornin' poor Bobby was gone— But his boots was lef’ on the flure.
# Poems and Portraits

Published in 1915. This text is also available from Project Gutenberg.
To the Memory of The late Joseph Hitt This book is dedicated
We used to say: "A poseur's trick! For rhymes inscribed 'In Memory' Mean just the rhymester's vanity"... And would your eyebrows twitch at this, With your old winsome raillery?
You taugh me how to think: to see, To fix the forms that to and fro Across the mind's proscenium go; You taught me how to write; 'tis not Your fault I have not written so.
You taught me how to live; you showed Defeat a mien that never quailed; And with blithe lips that never paled You flouted Pain. O Heart of Gold, 'Tis not your fault if I have failed!
You taught me how to die; when Death Moved in between us, mute and grim, You smiled and made a friend of him... God grant to me a smile like yours When the blurred day lessens and grows dim!
And should this seem a stark parade Of such a bond as mine and thine, Forgive this boastful heart of mine That brags it to the crowd, because I love our names to intertwine.
POEMS
* A Wood Fire
* The Paradox
* The Mystic
* A Ghost Speaks
* Heir and Serf
* A Gentleman of Fifty Soliliquizes
* Breath
* The Towers of Manhattan
* "Only Thy Dust..."
* Premonitions
* The Jesters
* Those that Come Back
* Sapphics
* The Fellowship of Caiaphas
* Inhibition
SAVAGE PORTRAITS
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 1937, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 86 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.
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# Poems attributed to Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) from The Keepsake, 1838

This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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The person who associated a work with this deed has dedicated the work to the public domain by waiving all of their rights to the work worldwide under copyright law, including all related and neighboring rights, to the extent allowed by law. You can copy, modify, distribute and perform the work, even for commercial purposes, all without asking permission.
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Poems Attributed to Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) From The Keepsake, 1838
compiled by Peter J. Bolton
* The First
* The Last
Notice
All contributions to The Keepsake, 1838 were kept anonymous. However, Sypher believes these two poems are by Landon and includes them in the closing notes to his Poems from the Annuals. They follow on from the opening story "The Royal Marriage", which is known to be by Landon from a surviving manuscript.
The reviewer in Fraser’s Magazine at the time clearly agrees because he wrote:—
A pretty lady, of course, by Chalon, for a frontispiece: next comes an engraving, called, touchingly, "The First." This represents a Greek kissing a Turkish lady; and following it, is a third plate, with heart-breaking pathos entitled "The Last." It is our old friend Conrad, with Medora dead in her bed; but there are some other words tricked up to this old tune: "What, is the ladye sleeping?" &c. We think we can recognise, in spite of the incog., the fair writer who calls Conrad’s mistress a ladye.
The metamorphosis of the dead into sculpture is a theme that is typical of Landon.
# Poems attributed to Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) from The Keepsake, 1838/The Last

* THE LAST
* Painted by Edward CorbouldEngraved by H. Cook
THE LAST.
What! is the ladye sleeping?—no, too pale
 Is that white slumber for the dreaming hours;
Too curious are the foldings of that veil,
 And too unmoved that wreath of fragrant flowers.
She lieth like a statue, white and cold,
 Like the soft marble of some sculptured column;
The long bright hair sweeps down in many a fold
 O’er the high brow—wan with death’s hues, and solemn.
This is not sleep—for sleep retains the life
 That gives the image to the troubled dreaming,
With all day’s feverish cares and fancies rife,
 Around the flushed and unquiet pillow seeming.
But these are over here—the cold clear cheek
 Has neither tears nor blushes to discover;
Fear hath no more to shun, nor hope to seek,
 The sorrows and the joys of earth are over.
A little while, and e’en these sad remains
 May stay with those who cherish them no longer;
Vainly the weeper what he loves retains—
 He may not—love is strong—but death is stronger.
Scatter the violets o’er that wan brow,
 And raise that cold form from its last life pillow;
Bear it to where those azure violets grow,
 Then leave it to its rest beneath the willow.
And is this all?—Ah! no—the loved, the dead,
 Have yet another tomb, the heart’s enshrining;
There are the inward tears perpetual shed,
 Grief with all other memories entwining.
Weep for the mourner—not for her who knows
 Life’s latest—aye, and also sweetest slumber;
Peace is around it—only weep for those
 Whom mortal cares and mortal anguish cumber.
It is a desperate grief—an utter gloom—
 To which all after life brings no removing,
To know that deep within the unpitying tomb
 Lies all the heart had in this world for loving.
# Poems by "Cushag"/Calling of the Name

CALLING OF THE NAME.
I was down alone in the Moaney, Nobody else was near, When my name was goin' a'callin' Low an' sof an' clear. None was I seein' aroun' me, Never a face of clay; An' my name was goin' a'callin' Jus' at the close of day.
The childher it's like were callin', Wantin' you they'd be For a twilight play in the haggart Under the tramman tree.
None of the childher was near me, Gone to their homes they were; An' my name was goin' a'callin' Over the Moaney there.
Daddy it's like was callin' Wantin' your help awhile, Dhrivin' the sheep he would be Over beyond the stile.
Daddy was gone to the mountain, I saw him against the sky, An' my name was goin' a'callin' Like a whisper passin' by.
There's Them that's sometimes callin' Low in th' everin' hour, An' if you give Them answer They have you in their power. A voice when the night is fallin', A whisper on the air, An' seekin' to draw you to them Down in the Moaney there.
Mammy the voice a'callin', Callin' my name to me Was his that long is lying Cold in the cruel sea. You'll lave Goodbye with my Daddy An' lay me on my bed— Chile veen, chile veen, what ails thee! I answered it, she said.
# Poems attributed to Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L. E. L.) from The Keepsake, 1838/The First

* THE FIRST
* Painted by F. P. StothardEngraved by H. Robinson
THE FIRST.
A lovely and a languid hour,
Long is the shadow on the flower,
And twilight with her first soft tears
Amid the cypress grove appears.
Listening for one beloved foot,
Sweeter to her than song or lute,
The ladye leans above the chords,
Deep in those thoughts that ask not words.
A little while hath she been bride
To him who lingers at her side,
As life had nothing left to show
More than that fairy form below.
Could those too happy moments stay
When Love is in his early day,
Life were a poet’s fancy, made
For dreaming in the green wood shade.
Then common things are covered o’er
With beauty never known before;
A little leaf, a flower will wear
A charm that only Love flings there.
As yonder rising star hath given
Its own pure loveliness to heaven,
So Love can to the human heart
Its own enchanted light impart.
’Tis but a dream—a morning dream,
Yet flinging down on life’s dark stream
A shadow fairer than the rose
To warm the current to its close.
Henceforth the spirit has one spot
Where other griefs and cares come not—
One thought that is from heaven, and flings
The lustre of an angel’s wings.
Ah! linger, ye beloved hours,
Linger on life’s enchanted flowers,
They are so lovely—linger on—
What will they do when ye are gone?