OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Secret Key and Other Verses/The Sword of Pain

First published in The Australasian on 30 September 1905.
THE SWORD OF PAIN
# The Secret Key and Other Verses/The Two Goblets

Bearing two crystal goblets in her hands To a philosopher an Angel came: One wine shone clear as water o'er white sands,
One red as flame.
"Choose!" said the Angel. "From life's wine-press flows For all mankind the vintage which I bring. The pale cup holds exemption from life's woes,
The red brings suffering."
"One wine is colourless," the dreamer said. "Who suffer keenest nobler joys attain." And to the dregs drained from the goblet red The draught of pain.
Then spake the Angel: "Thou hast chosen well. What seemeth loss to thee shall prove thy gain. All that is pure, and sweet, and beautiful
Is born of pain."
This work is in the public domain in Australia because it was created in Australia and the term of copyright has expired. According to Australian Copyright Council - Duration of Copyright, the following works are public domain:
* published non-government works whose author died before January 1, 1955,
* anonymous or pseudonymous works and photographs published before January 1, 1955, and
* government works published more than 50 years ago (before January 1, 1974).
This work is also in the public domain in the United States because it was first published outside the United States (and not published in the U.S. within 30 days), and it was first published before 1989 without complying with U.S. copyright formalities (renewal and/or copyright notice) and it was in the public domain in Australia on the URAA date (January 1, 1996). This is the combined effect of Australia having joined the Berne Convention in 1928, and of 17 USC 104A with its critical date of January 1, 1996.
Because the Australian copyright term in 1996 was 50 years, the critical date for copyright in the United States under the URAA is January 1, 1946.
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
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Wind That Tramps the World (short story)

* "The Wind That Tramps the World" in Weird Tales, 5 (4) (April 1925)
* "The Wind That Tramps the World" in Weird Tales, 13 (6) (June 1929)
* "The Wind That Tramps the World," in The Wind That Tramps the World (1929)
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 1968, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 55 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Wind in the Willows (1908)

* related portals: Children's literature.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category.
The Wind in the Willows
by
Kenneth Grahame
THE WIND IN THE WILLOWS
BY
Kenneth Grahame Author of "The Golden Age", "Dream Days" etc.
NEW YORK Charles Scribner's Sons 1908
Copyright, 1908, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
Published October, 1908
Contents :
| Chapter | | Page |
| I. | The River Bank | 1 |
| II. | The Open Road | 24 |
| III. | The Wild Wood | 46 |
| IV. | Mr. Badger | 69 |
| V. | Dulce Domum | 93 |
| VI. | Mr. Toad | 120 |
| VII. | The Piper at the Gates of Dawn | 144 |
| VIII. | Toad's Adventures | 163 |
| IX. | Wayfarers All | 187 |
| X. | The Further Adventures of Toad | 217 |
| XI. | "Like Summer Tempests Came His Tears" | 247 |
| XII. | The Return of Ulysses | 278 |
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Wind and the Moon

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Wind and the Moon."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* The Wind and the Moon, a poem by George Macdonald
* The Wind and the Moon, a poem by Clark Ashton Smith
# The Wind and the Moon (Smith)

1912.
Oh, list to the wind of the night, oh, hark, How it shrieks as it goes on its hurrying quest! Forever its voice is a voice of the dark, Forever its voice is a voice of unrest. Oh, list to the pines as they shiver and sway 'Neath the ceaseless beat of its myriad wings— How they moan and they sob like living things That cry in the darkness for light and day! Now bend they low as the wind mounts higher, And ite eerie voice comes piercingly, Like the plaint of humanity's misery, And its burden of vain desire. Now to a sad, tense whisper it fails, Then wildly and madly it raves and it wails.
Oh, the night is filled with its sob and its shriek, Its weird and its restless, yearning cry, As it races adown the darkened sky, With scurry of broken clouds that seek, Borne on the wings of the hastening wind, A place of rest that they never can find. And around the face of the moon they cling, Its fugitive face to veil they aspire; But ever and ever it peereth out, Rending the cloud-ranks that hem it about; And it seemeth a lost and phantom thing, Like a phantom of dead desire.
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 1961, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 62 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Wind begun to knead the Grass—

* "A Thunder-Storm" in Poems: Second Series (1891)
* "The wind began to rock the grass" in The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson (1924)
# The Story of Mary MacLane/January 14

I have in me the germs of intense life. If I could live, and if I could succeed in writing out my living, the world itself would feel the heavy intensity of it.
I have the personality, the nature, of a Napoleon, albeit a feminine translation. And therefore I do not conquer; I do not even fight. I manage only to exist.
Poor little Mary MacLane!—what might you not be? What wonderful things might you not do? But held down, half-buried, a seed fallen in barren ground, alone, uncomprehended, obscure—poor little Mary MacLane! Weep, world,—why don't you?—for poor little Mary MacLane!
Had I been born a man I would by now have made a deep impression of myself on the world—on some part of it. But I am a woman, and God, or the ​Devil, or Fate, or whosoever it was, has flayed me of the thick outer skin and thrown me out into the midst of life—has left me a lonely, damned thing filled with the red, red blood of ambition and desire, but afraid to be touched, for there is no thick skin between my sensitive flesh and the world's fingers.
But I want to be touched.
Napoleon was a man, and though sensitive his flesh was safely covered.
But I am a woman, awakening, and upon awakening and looking about me, I would fain turn and go back to sleep.
There is a pain that goes with these things when one is a woman, young, and all alone.
I am filled with an ambition. I wish to give to the world a naked Portrayal of Mary MacLane: her wooden heart, her good young woman's-body, her mind, her soul.
I wish to write, write, write!
I wish to acquire that beautiful, ​benign, gentle, satisfying thing—Fame. I want it—oh, I want it! I wish to leave all my obscurity, my misery—my weary unhappiness—behind me forever.
I am deadly, deadly tired of my unhappiness.
I wish this Portrayal to be published and launched into that deep salt sea—the world. There are some there surely who will understand it and me.
Can I be that thing which I am—can I be possessed of a peculiar rare genius, and yet drag out my life in obscurity in this uncouth, warped, Montana town?
It must be impossible! If I thought the world contained nothing more than that for me—oh, what should I do? Would I make an end of my dreary little life now? I fear I would. I am a philosopher—and a coward. And it were infinitely better to die now in the high-beating pulses of youth than to drag on, year after year, year after year, and find oneself at last a stagnant old woman, spiritless, hopeless, with a ​declining body, a declining mind,—and nothing to look back upon except the visions of things that might have been—and the weariness.
I see the picture. I see it plainly. Oh, kind Devil, deliver me from it!
Surely there must be in a world of manifold beautiful things something among them for me. And always, while I am still young, there is that dim light, the Future. But it is indeed a dim, dim light, and ofttimes there's a treachery in it.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/January 17

AS I have said, I want Fame. I want to write—to write such things as compel the admiring acclamations of the world at large; such things as are written but once in years, things subtly but distinctly different from the books written every day.
I can do this.
Let me but make a beginning, let me but strike the world in a vulnerable spot, and I can take it by storm. Let me but win my spurs, and then you will see me—of womankind and young—valiantly astride a charger riding down the world, with Fame following at the charger's heels, and the multitudes agape.
But oh, more than all this I want to be happy!
Fame is indeed benign and gentle and satisfying. But Happiness is some​thing at once tender and brilliant beyond all things.
I want Fame more than I can tell.
But more than I want Fame I want Happiness. I have never been happy in my weary young life.
Think, oh, think, of being happy for a year—for a day! How brilliantly blue the sky would be; how swiftly and joyously would the green rivers run; how madly, merrily triumphant the four winds of heaven would sweep round the corners of the fair earth!
What would I not give for one day, one hour, of that charmed thing Happiness! What would I not give up?
How we eager fools tread on each other's heels, and tear each other's hair, and scratch each other's faces, in our furious gallop after Happiness! For some it is embodied in Fame, for some in Money, for some in Power, for some in Virtue—and for me in something very much like love.
None of the other fools desires Hap​piness as I desire it. For one single hour of Happiness I would give up at once these things: Fame, and Money, and Power, and Virtue, and Honor, and Righteousness, and Truth, and Logic, and Philosophy, and Genius. The while I would say, What a little, little price to pay for dear Happiness!
I am ready and waiting to give all that I have to the Devil in exchange for Happiness. I have been tortured so long with the dull, dull misery of Nothingness—all my nineteen years. I want to be happy—oh, I want to be happy!
The Devil has not yet come. But I know that he usually comes, and I wait him eagerly.
I am fortunate that I am not one of those who are burdened with an innate sense of virtue and honor which must come always before Happiness. They are but few who find their Happiness in their Virtue. The rest of them must be content to see it walk away. ​But with me Virtue and Honor are nothing.
I long unspeakably for Happiness.
And so I await the Devil's coming.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/January 15

So then, yes. I find myself at this stage of womankind and nineteen years, a genius, a thief, a liar—a general moral vagabond, a fool more or less, and a philosopher of the peripatetic school. Also I find that even this combination can not make one happy. It serves, however, to occupy my versatile mind, to keep me wondering what it is a kind Devil has in store for me.
A philosopher of my own peripatetic school—hour after hour I walk over the desolate sand and dreariness among tiny hills and gulches on the outskirts of this mining town; in the morning, in the long afternoon, in the cool of the night. And hour after hour, as I walk, through my brain some long, long pageants march: the pageant of my fancies, the pageant of my unparalleled egotism, the pageant of my unhappiness, the pageant of my minute analyzing, ​the pageant of my peculiar philosophy, the pageant of my dull, dull life,—and the pageant of the Possibilities.
We three go out on the sand and barrenness: my wooden heart, my good young woman's-body, my soul. We go there and contemplate the long sandy wastes, the red, red line on the sky at the setting of the sun, the cold gloomy mountains under it, the ground without a weed, without a grass-blade even in their season—for they have years ago been killed off by the sulphur smoke from the smelters.
So this sand and barrenness forms the setting for the personality of me.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/February 28

TO-DAY when I walked over my sand and barrenness I felt Infinite Grief.
Everything is beyond me.
Nothing is mine.
My single friendship shines brightly before me, and is fascinating—and always just out of my reach.
I want the love and sympathy of human beings, and I repel human beings.
Yes, I repel human beings.
There is something about me that faintly and finely and unmistakably repels.
When my Happiness comes, shall I be able to have it? Shall I ever have anything?
This repellent power is not an outward quality. It is something that comes from deeply, deeply within. It is something that was there in the Be​ginning. It is a thing from the Original.
There is no ridding myself of it. There is no ridding myself of it. There is no ridding myself of it.
Oh, I am damned—damned!
There is not one soul in the world to feel for me and with me—not one out of all the millions. No one can understand—no one.
You are saying to yourself that I imagine this.
What right have you to say so? You don't know anything about me. I know all about me. I have studied all the elements and phases in my life for years and years. I do not imagine anything. I am even fool enough to shut my eyes to some things until, inevitably, I know I must meet them. I am racked with the passions of youth, and I am young in years. Beyond that I am mature—old. I am not a child in anything but my passions and my years. I feel and recognize everything ​thoroughly. I have not to imagine anything. My inner life is before my eyes.
There is something about me that no one can understand. Can there ever be any one to understand? Shall I not always walk my barren road alone?
This follows me incessantly. It is burning like a smouldering fire every hour of my life.
Oh, deep black Despair!
How I suffer, how I suffer—just in being alive.
I feel Infinite Grief.
Oh, Infinite Grief——
# The Story of Mary MacLane/February 4

ALWAYS I wonder, when I die will there be any one to remember me with love?
I know I am not lovable.
That I want it so much only makes me less lovable, it seems. But—who knows?—it may be there will be some one.
My anemone lady does not love me. How can she—since she does not understand me? But she allows me to love her—and that carries me a long way. There are many—oh, a great many—who will not allow you to love them if you would.
There is no one to love me now.
Always I wonder how it will be after some long years when I find myself about to die.
# The White Moll

"It was very shallow, scarcely three-quarters of an inch in depth, but it was quite long enough, and quite wide enough for its purpose! Inside, there lay a little pile of banknotes, banknotes of very large denomination—the one on top was a thousand-dollar bill. She reached in and took out the money—and then from Rhoda Gray's lips there came a little cry, the flashlight dropped from her hand and smashed to the floor, and she was clinging desperately to the edge of the escritoire for support. The shop was flooded with light. Over by the side wall, one hand still on the electric-light switch, the other holding a leveled revolver, stood a man."
The White Moll is Packard's only novel with a female protagonist. It was adapted into a silent film in 1920.
An audio-book is available at Librivox
Layout 2
The White Moll by Frank L. Packard
page
THE WHITE MOLL
FRANK L. PACKARD
THE
WHITE MOLL
BY
FRANK L. PACKARD
AUTHOR OF "FROM NOW ON," "THE NIGHT OPERATOR,"
"THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF JIMMIE
DALE," ETC.
THE COPP, CLARK CO., LIMITED
TORONTO
COPYRIGHT, 1920,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1919-1920, BY STORY-PRESS CORPORATION
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
page
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
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 1942, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 81 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Vanity Box

A murder mystery by A. M. Williamson, writing as Alice Stuyvesant.
Layout 2
"If she were not a beauty, she was interesting and unusual"
THE VANITY BOX
BY
ALICE STUYVESANT
ILLUSTRATED BY CHARLOTTE WEBER-DITZLER
Garden Citynew York DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
1911
All. RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES. INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
COPYRIGHT, DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
ILLUSTRATIONS
FACING PAGE
CONTENTS
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 1933, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 90 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Veil and other poems/In the Dock

IN THE DOCK
PALLID, mis-shapen he stands. The world's
grimed thumb,
Now hooked securely in his matted hair, Has haled him struggling from his poisonous slum
And flung him mute as fish close-netted there.
His bloodless hands entalon that iron rail.
He gloats in beastlike trance. His settling eyes
From staring face to face rove on—and quail.
Justice for carrion pants; and these the flies.
Voice after voice in smooth impartial drone
Erects horrific in his darkening brain
A timber framework, where agape, alone
Bright life will kiss good-bye the cheek of Cain.
Sudden like wolf he cries; and sweats to see
When howls man's soul, it howls inaudibly.
# The Veil and other poems/Mourn'st Thou Now?

MOURN'ST THOU NOW?
LONG ago from radiant palace,
Dream-bemused, in flood of moon,
Stole the princess Seraphita
Into forest gloom.
Wail of hemlock; cold the dewdrops;
Danced the Dryads in the chace;
Heavy hung ambrosial fragrance;
Moonbeams blanched her ravished face.
Frail and clear the notes delusive;
Mocking phantoms in a rout
Thridded the night-cloistered thickets,
Wove their sorceries in and out. . . .   Mourn'st thou now? Or do thine eyelids
Frame a vision dark, divine,
O'er this imp of star and wild-flower—
Of a god once thine?
# The Veil and other poems/Music

MUSIC
O RESTLESS fingers—not that music make!
Bidding old griefs from out the past awake,
And pine for memory's sake.
Those strings thou callest from quiet mute to yearn,
Of other hearts did hapless secrets learn,
And thy strange skill will turn
To uses that thy bosom dreams not of:
Ay, summon from their dark and dreadful grove
The chaunting, pale-cheeked votaries of love.   Stay now, and hearken! From that far-away
Cymbal on cymbal beats, the fierce horns bray,
Stars in their sapphire fade, 'tis break of day.   Green are those meads, foam-white the billow's crest,
And Night, withdrawing in the cavernous West,
Flings back her shadow on the salt sea's breast.
Snake-haired, snow-shouldered, pure as flame and dew,
Her strange gaze burning slumbrous eyelids through,
Rises the Goddess from the wave's dark blue.
# The Veil and other poems/Sotto Voce

SOTTO VOCE
{To Edward Thomas)
THE haze of noon wanned silver-grey
The soundless mansion of the sun;
The air made visible in his ray,
Like molten glass from furnace run,
Quivered o'er heat-baked turf and stone
And the flower of the gorse burned on—
Burned softly as gold of a child's fair hair
Along each spiky spray, and shed
Almond-like incense in the air
Whereon our senses fed.
At foot—a few sparse harebells: blue
And still as were the friend's dark eyes
That dwelt on mine, transfixed through
With sudden ecstatic surmise.   'Hst!' he cried softly, smiling, and lo,
Stealing amidst that maze gold-green,
I heard a whispering music flow
From guileful throat of bird, unseen:—
So delicate the straining ear
Scarce carried its faint syllabling
Into a heart caught-up to hear
That inmost pondering
Of bird-like self with self. We stood,
In happy trance-like solitude,
Hearkening a lullay grieved and sweet—
As when on isle uncharted beat
'Gainst coral at the palm-tree's root, With brine-clear, snow-white foam afloat,
The wailing, not of water or wind—
A husht, far, wild, divine lament,
When Prospero his wizardry bent
Winged Ariel to bind. . . .
Then silence, and o'er-flooding noon.
I raised my head; smiled too. And he—
Moved his great hand, the magic gone—
Gently amused to see
My ignorant wonderment. He sighed.
'It was a nightingale,' he said,
'That sotto voce cons the song
He'll sing when dark is spread;
And Night's vague hours are sweet and long.
And we are laid abed.'
# The Veil and other poems/Sunk Lyonesse

SUNK LYONESSE
IN sea-cold Lyonesse,
When the Sabbath eve shafts down
On the roofs, walls, belfries
Of the foundered town,
The Nereids pluck their lyres
Where the green translucency beats,
And with motionless eyes at gaze
Make minstrelsy in the streets.   And the ocean water stirs
In salt-worn casemate and porch.
Plies the blunt-snouted fish
With fire in his skull for torch.
And the ringing wires resound;
And the uneiarthly lovely weep,
In lament of the music they make
In the sullen courts of sleep:
Whose marble flowers bloom for aye:
And—lapped by the moon-guiled tide—
Mock their carver with heart of stone,
Caged in his stone-ribbed side.
# The Veil and other poems/The Chatechism

THE CATECHISM
'HAST thou then nought wiser to bring
Than worn-out songs of moon and rose?'
'Cracked my voice and broken my wing,
God knows.'
'Tell'st thou no truth of the life that is;
Seek'st thou from heaven no pitying sign?'
'Ask thine own heart these mysteries,
Not mine.'
'Where then the faith thou hast brought to seed?
Where the sure hope thy soul would feign?'
'Never ebbed sweetness—even out of a weed—
In vain.'   'Fool. The night comes. . . . 'Tis late. Arise:
Cold lap the waters of Jordan stream.'
'Deep be their flood and tranquil thine eyes
With a dream.'
# The Veil and other poems/Hospital

HOSPITAL
Welcome! Enter ! This is the Inn at the
Cross Roads,
Sign of the Rising Sun, of the World's End:
Ay, O Wanderer, footsore, weary, forsaken,
Knock, and we will open to thee—Friend.
Gloomy our stairs of stone, obscure the portal;
Burdened the air with a breath from the further shore;
Yet in our courtyard plays an invisible fountain,
Ever flowers unfading nod at the door.
Ours is much company, and yet none is lonely;
Some with a smile may pay and some with a sigh;
So all be healed, restored, contented—it is no matter—
So all be happy at heart to bid good-bye.
But know, our clocks are the world's; Night's wings
are leaden,
Pain languidly sports with the hours; have
courage, sir!
We wake but to bring thee slumber, our drowsy syrups
Sleep beyond dreams on the weary will confer.
Ghosts may be ours; but gaze thou not too closely
If haply in chill of the dark thou rouse to see
One silent of foot, hooded, and hollow of visage,
Pause, with secret eyes, to peer out at thee.   He is the Ancient Tapster of this Hostel,
To him at length even we all keys must resign;
And if he beckon, Stranger, thou too must follow—
Love and all peace be thine.