OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Dickinson)/To fight aloud is very brave

XVI.
To fight aloud is very brave, But gallanter, I know,
Who charge within the bosom, The cavalry of woe.
Who win, and nations do not see, Who fall, and none observe, Whose dying eyes no country Regards with patriot love.
We trust, in plumed procession, For such the angels go, Rank after rank, with even feet And uniforms of snow.
# Poems (Dickinson)/To know just how he suffered

XIX.
TO know just how he suffered would be dear; To know if any human eyes were near To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze, Until it settled firm on Paradise.
To know if he was patient, part content, Was dying as he thought, or different; Was it a pleasant day to die, And did the sunshine face his way?
What was his furthest mind, of home, of God, Or what the distant say At news that he ceased human nature
On such a day?
​And wishes, had he any? Just his sigh, accented, Had been legible to me. And was he confident until Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?
And if he spoke, what name was best, What first, What one broke off with At the drowsiest?
Was he afraid, or tranquil? Might he know How conscious consciousness could grow, Till love that was, and love too blest to be, Meet—and the junction be Eternity?
# Poems (Dickinson)/Transplanted

X.
TRANSPLANTED.
As if some little Arctic flower, Upon the polar hem, Went wandering down the latitudes, Until it puzzled came To continents of summer, To firmaments of sun, To strange, bright crowds of flowers, And birds of foreign tongue! I say, as if this little flower To Eden wandered in— What then? Why, nothing, Only, your interference therefrom!
# Poems (Dickinson)/Two swimmers wrestled on the spar

XXVI.
Two swimmers wrestled on the spar Until the morning sun, When one turned smiling to the land. O God, the other one!
The stray ships passing spied a face Upon the waters borne, With eyes in death still begging raised, And hands beseeching thrown.
# Poems (Dickinson)/Two Worlds

XX.
TWO WORLDS.
It makes no difference abroad, The seasons fit the same, The mornings blossom into noons, And split their pods of flame.
Wild-flowers kindle in the woods, The brooks brag all the day; No blackbird bates his jargoning For passing Calvary.
Auto-da-fé and judgment Are nothing to the bee; His separation from his rose To him seems misery.
# Poems (Kennedy)

POEMS
BY
SARA BEAUMONT KENNEDY
Author of "One Wish"
THE CAMEO PRESS AND PUBLISHING COMPANY
NEW YORK
NINETEEN HUNDRED AND NINETEEN
Copyright, 1919, by the author
SARA BEAUMONT KENNEDY
Printed in the United States of America
All rights reserved
PRESS OF
THE NEW ERA PRINTING COMPANY
LANCASTER, PA.
TO
MRS. AUGUSTA LAMAR HEISKELL
THE AUTHOR
CONTENTS
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
# Poems (Dorr)/The Dead Century

"PRO PATRIA"
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Early Rising

Early Rising.
Are my flowers awake,
 That so sweet were sleeping?
See, they lift their heads,
 Dewy tear-drops weeping.
Has the bee come forth?
 At her work she's singing,
To her busy hive
 Honied treasures bringing.
Is the linnet up?
 Hark! his song he raises;
Let me join him too,
 With my morning praises.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Child of sixteen months old to a Cousin in Boston

Child of sixteen months old to a Cousin in Boston.
My Cousin, dear,
I almost fear
 To write to you; So rare your wit
'T is surely fit,
 My words be few.
Your native coast
Has much to boast
 Of glorious name;
Both ancient lore
And modern store
 Uphold its fame.
Your'e proud, I fear,
In Boston, dear;
 I wish you would
Just come and share
Our country fare,
 T' would do you good.
Our rustic ways
And boisterous plays
 Perhaps might fright you;
But the sweet birds
And lambs, and herds
 Must sure delight you.
Pray give with this
A Christmas kiss
 To aunties, three;
And love to all,
Both great and small,  Who think of me.
'T is time that I
My cradle try,
 Nurse takes the light,
And strains her ken,
To snatch my pen,
 So love, good night.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Christmas Hymn

Christmas Hymn.
Bring wreaths, green wreaths, our joyful hands
 Their glowing tints shall twine,
To celebrate our Saviour's birth,
 The "Children's Friend" divine,
Who drew them to his favouring arms
 When sterner souls forbade,
And kindly on his sheltering breast
 Their heads reposing laid.
But He, the babe of Bethlehem slept
 Uncradled and unsought,
No joyful bands with songs of praise
 Sweet buds and blossoms brought,
But horned brutes, with heavy tread
 Their manger's guest survey'd,
And stupid oxen watch'd the bed
 Where Earth's Redeemer laid.
Sister, bring flowers! the winter-rose
 Shall in our garland bloom
For Him whom weeping Mary sought
 And found an empty tomb;
Still in our hearts the plants of love
 A living stream should share,
Which flowing from his Holy Word
 Shall keep them fresh and fair.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Death of the youngest Child

Death of the youngest Child.
"Why is our infant sister's eye
 No more with gladness bright?
Her brow of dimpled beauty, why
 So like the marble white?"
My little ones, ye need no more
 To hush the sportive tread,
Or whispering, pass the muffled door,—
 Your sweetest one is dead.
In vain you'll seek her joyous tone
 Of tuneful mirth to hear,
Nor will her suffering, dove-like moan  Again distress your ear.
Lost to a mother's pillowing breast,
 The snow-wreath marks her bed,
Her polish'd cheek in earth must rest,—
 Your sweetest one is dead.
Returning spring, the birds will call
 Their happy task to take;
Vales, verdant trees, and streamlets, all
 From winter's sleep shall wake,
Again your cherished flowers shall bloom
 Anew their fragrance shed;
But she, the darling, will not come.—
 Your sweetest one is dead.
Ye know that blest Redeemer's name
 Who gaz'd on childhood's charms,
Indulgent heard its gentle claim,
 And clasp'd it in his arms;
To him, your sister babe hath gone,
 Her pains, her tears are o'er,
Safe, near her Heavenly Father's throne,
 She bows to death no more.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Dialogue in the fields between a Mother and little Child

Dialogue in the fields, between a Mother and little Child.
Come forth,—come forth, 'tis the time of joy,
Bright summer is out, in the vales, my boy,
Through its lillied bed, see the clear brook glide,
And the white lamb sport by its mother's side,
See the butterfly spread out a golden wing,
And the bees to the honey blossoms sing,
And the grasshopper leap 'mid the new-mown hay.
So we, my child, will be happy as they.
 Sweet words
 Speak the birds
 From the tree;
Mother! teach
 Their speech
 Unto me.
Of love they sing when they build their nest,
Of love when they soar o'er the mountain's breast.
Or nurture their young in their green retreat,
This makes their music to us so sweet.
And who can say but their warblings rise
To our Father's ear in yon beautiful skies?
Yet nobler, boy, than their highest lays,
Is the language of man, and the voice of praise.
 Mother's eye,
 Like the sky,
 Shines bright;
 Such beams
 To my dreams
 Give light.
There's a smile on the earth and the waters mild,
For the heart of a good and a happy child,
And the sighing leaves on the wind-rock'd limb
Will lull him to sleep like a cradle hymn;
While Nature, with pencil of rain-bow dye,
Writes the name of God for his waking eye.
Remember him, babe, ere thy day of care,
At morn, and at night, in thy simple prayer,
Breathe the incense of childhood, fresh and free,
And he in thine age will remember thee.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Child's Hymn on the death of an Infant Brother

Child's Hymn.
ON THE LOSS OF AN INFANT BROTHER.
No more my little brother's voice,
 At early morn I hear—
No more his sparkling eyes rejoice
 To see our mother near.
They took him where our grandsire slept,  On pillow green and fair,
And laid him in that lowly bed,
 And turn'd, and left him there.
But then, his never-dying soul
 On glorious wing did soar,
Where pain that made his cheek so pale
 Can never vex him more.
He hath a happy cherub's smile,
 He hath a robe of white,
He gathers ever-blooming flowers,
 Which no cold storm may blight.
'T was sweet to take him in my arms,
 And watch his laughing eyes,
But he has found more perfect joy
 Above the cloudless skies.
Our blessed grandsire is in Heaven,
 For so my parents said,
With him my darling brother lives,
 O say not, he is dead.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Christ blessing the Children

Christ blessing the Children.
"And he took them in his arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them." Mark x. 16.
When the Redeemer dwelt in clay,
The proud, the powerful shunn'd his sway,
The scribe and pharisee with frown
On him of Nazareth look'd down,
And Judah, long with dream elate
Of her Messiah's regal state,
Beheld the homeless one with hate,
And Rome, with haughty mockery ey'd
The Man of grief, the crucified.—
—But they, the innocent, the blest,
In childhood's meekness, sought his breast,
Their little feet without a guide
Came thronging to his peaceful side,
And tho' the cold and stern command
Bade them at greater distance stand,
Yet strengthen'd by his cheering smile,
They gather'd to his arms the while,
And 'mid his bosom's holy shade
Their beauteous heads, confiding laid.
—Children! even now that heavenly Friend
Doth to your weakness condescend;
Yes, still he marks with favoring smile,
Your trusting spirits, free from guile,— Still, by his gracious Word would guide
Your steps in safety to his side;
Still waits, in tender love to shed
His blessing on your beauteous head.
—Lambs of the flock! with all your charms,
Haste to your glorious Shepherd's arms.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Difference of Color

Difference of Color.
God gave to Afric's sons
 A brow of sable dye,
And spread the country of their birth
 Beneath a burning sky,
And with a cheek of olive, made
 The little Hindoo child,
And darkly stain'd the forest-tribes
 That roam our western wild.
To me he gave a form
 Of fairer, whiter clay;
But am I, therefore, in his sight
 Respected more than they?
No,—'tis the hue of deeds and thoughts
 He traces in his Book,
'Tis the complexion of the heart
 On which he deigns to look.
Not by the tinted cheek
 That fades away so fast,
But by the color of the soul,
 We shall be judg'd at last. And God, the Judge, will look at me
 With anger in his eyes,
If I, my brother's darker brow
 Should ever dare despise.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Entrance to a Sunday School

Entrance to a Sunday-School.
Father in Heaven! my spirit ought
 Thy blessing to implore,
Admitted where thy truths are taught.
 And pious hearts adore.
Instruct my ignorance, I pray,
 My wayward passions tame,
From every folly guard my way,
 From every sin reclaim.
Each task with pleasure may I learn,
 Each Scripture-lesson prize,
And grant thy wisdom to discern
 Whate'er in darkness lies.
Short is the time we here may pass,
 And life is transient too,
Like the brief flowret of the grass,
 Or like the morning dew.
With trembling awe, thy power I see,
 Thy boundless mercy sing,
Few words become a child like me
 Before so great a King.
Teach me thy precepts to fulfil,
 To trust a Saviour's love,
To yield to thy most righteous will
 And seek a home above.
# Poems for Children Sigourney/Funeral Hymn for a Sunday School Scholar

Funeral Hymn for a Sunday School Scholar.
As crushed by sudden storms the rose
 Sinks on the garden's breast,
Down to the grave our brother goes
 In earth's cold arms to rest.
No more with us, his tuneful voice
 The hymn of praise shall swell,
No more his cheerful heart rejoice
 To hear the Sabbath-bell.
Yet if in yon unclouded sphere,
 Amid a blessed throng,
He warbles to his Saviour's ear
 The everlasting song,—
No more we'll mourn our buried friend,
 But lift the ardent prayer,
And every wish and effort bend
 To rise and join him there.
# Poems (Holley)

POEMS.
BY
"JOSIAH ALLEN'S WIFE,"
(MARIETTA HOLLEY.)
ILLUSTRATED
BY
W. HAMILTON GIBSON,
AND OTHERS.
FUNK & WAGNALLS, Publishers.
NEW YORK:1887.LONDON: 18 & 20 ASTOR PLACE,44 FLEET STREET.
All rights reserved.
DEDICATION.
When I wrote many of these verses I was much younger than
I am now, and the "sweetest eyes in the world" would
brighten over them, through the reader's
love for me. I dedicate them to her
memory—the memory of
MY MOTHER.
PREFACE.
All through my busy years of prose writing I have occasionally jotted down idle thoughts in rhyme. Imagining ideal scenes, ideal characters, and then, as is the way, I suppose, with more ambitious poets, trying to put myself inside the personalities I have invoked, trying to feel as they would be likely to, speak the words I fancied they would say.
The many faults of my verses I can see only too well; their merits, if they have any, I leave with the public—which has always been so kind to me—to discover.
And half-hopefully, half-fearfully, I send out the little craft on the wide sea strewn with so many wrecks. But thinking it must be safer from adverse winds because it carries so low a sail, and will cruise along so close to the shore and not try to sail out in the deep waters.
And so I bid the dear little wanderer (dear to me), God-speed, and bon voyage.
Marietta Holley.
New York, June, 1887.
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 1926, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 97 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
# Poems (Larcom)/Entangled

FROM WITHOUT.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 2

Scans
Layout 4
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 2/Advertisements

Layout 4
# Poems (Tree)

POEMS
IRIS TREE
​POEMS BY
IRIS TREE
THE author returns thanks for permission to use in this collection of her poems, those which have appeared in Poetry, Vanity Fair and the "Wheels" Anthology.
HEAD OF IRIS TREEBy Jacob Epstein
Poems
by
Iris Tree
Decorations by Curtis Moffat
LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXX
Press of J. J . Little & Ives Company
New York, U. S. A.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
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
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Owl

The Owl.
When cats run home and light is come, And dew is cold upon the ground, And the far-off stream is dumb, And the whirring sail goes round, And the whirring sail goes round; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.
When merry milkmaids click the latch, And rarely smells the new-mown hay, And the cock hath sung beneath the thatch Twice or thrice his roundelay, Twice or thrice his roundelay; Alone and warming his five wits, The white owl in the belfry sits.
Alfred Tennyson.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Problem

The Problem.
"The Problem" (by Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1803-80) is quoted from one end of the world to the other. Emerson teaches one lesson above all others, that each soul must work out for itself its latent force, its own individual expression, and that with a "sad sincerity." "The bishop of the soul" can do no more.
I like a church; I like a cowl; I love a prophet of the soul; And on my heart monastic aisles Fall like sweet strains, or pensive smiles: Yet not for all his faith can see Would I that cowlèd churchman be. Why should the vest on him allure, Which I could not on me endure?
Not from a vain or shallow thought His awful Jove young Phidias brought; Never from lips of cunning fell The thrilling Delphic oracle; Out from the heart of nature rolled The burdens of the Bible old; The litanies of nations came, Like the volcano's tongue of flame, Up from the burning core below,— The canticles of love and woe: The hand that rounded Peter's dome And groined the aisles of Christian Rome Wrought in a sad sincerity; Himself from God he could not free; He builded better than he knew; The conscious stone to beauty grew.
Knowst thou what wove yon woodbird's nest Of leaves and feathers from her breast? ​Or how the fish outbuilt her shell, Painting with morn each annual cell? Or how the sacred pine-tree adds To her old leaves new myriads? Such and so grew these holy piles, While love and terror laid the tiles. Earth proudly wears the Parthenon, As the best gem upon her zone, And Morning opes with haste her lids To gaze upon the Pyramids; O'er England's abbeys bends the sky, As on its friends, with kindred eye; For out of Thought's interior sphere These wonders rose to upper air; And Nature gladly gave them place, Adopted them into her race, And granted them an equal date With Andes and with Ararat.
These temples grew as grows the grass; Art might obey, but not surpass. The passive Master lent his hand To the vast soul that o'er him planned; And the same power that reared the shrine Bestrode the tribes that knelt within. Ever the fiery Pentecost Girds with one flame the countless host, Trances the heart through chanting choirs And through the priest the mind inspires. The word unto the prophet spoken Was writ on tables yet unbroken; The word by seers or sibyls told, In groves of oak, or fanes of gold, ​Still floats upon the morning wind, Still whispers to the willing mind. One accent of the Holy Ghost The heedless world hath never lost. I know what say the fathers wise,— The Book itself before me lies, Old Chrysostom, best Augustine, And he who blent both in his line, The younger Golden Lips or mines, Taylor, the Shakespeare of divines. His words are music in my ear, I see his cowlèd portrait dear; And yet, for all his faith could see, I would not the good bishop be.
Ralph Waldo Emerson.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Rainbow

The Rainbow.
(A FRAGMENT.)
"The Rainbow," by William Wordsworth (1770-1850), accords with every child's feelings. It voices the spirit of all ages that would love to imagine it "a bridge to heaven."
My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky; So was it when my life began, So is it now I am a man, So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die! The child is father of the man; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
William Wordsworth.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Nightingale and the Glow-worm

The Nightingale and the Glow-worm.
"The Nightingale," by William Cowper (1731-1800), is a favorite with a teacher of good taste, and I include it at her request.
A nightingale, that all day long Had cheered the village with his song, Nor yet at eve his note suspended, Nor yet when eventide was ended, Began to feel, as well he might, The keen demands of appetite: When, looking eagerly around, He spied far off, upon the ground, ​A something shining in the dark, And knew the glow-worm by his spark; So, stooping down from hawthorn top, He thought to put him in his crop. The worm, aware of his intent, Harangued him thus, right eloquent: "Did you admire my lamp," quoth he, "As much as I your minstrelsy, You would abhor to do me wrong, As much as I to spoil your song; For 'twas the self-same power divine, Taught you to sing and me to shine; That you with music, I with light, Might beautify and cheer the night." The songster heard his short oration, And warbling out his approbation, Released him, as my story tells, And found a supper somewhere else.
William Cowper.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Rainbow (Campbell)

Part of a longer poem.
The Rainbow.
Triumphal arch, that fills the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art.
Still seem, as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given, For happy spirits to alight, Betwixt the earth and heaven.
Thomas Campbell.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Old Oaken Bucket

The Old Oaken Bucket.
"The Old Oaken Bucket," by Samuel Woodworth (1785-1848), is a poem we love because it is an elegant expression of something very dear and homely.
How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood, When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood, And every loved spot which my infancy knew! The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it, The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell, The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treasure, For often at noon, when returned from the field, I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing, And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell; ​Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing, And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips! Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, The brightest that beauty or revelry sips. And now, far removed from the loved habitation, The tear of regret will intrusively swell, As fancy reverts to my father's plantation, And sighs for the bucket that hangs in the well— The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well!
Samuel Woodworth.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Overland-Mail

The Overland-Mail.
"The Overland-Mail" is a most desirable poem for children to learn. When one boy learns it the others want to follow. It takes as a hero the man who gives common service—the one who does not lead or command, but follows the line of duty. (1865-.)
In the name of the Empress of India, make way, O Lords of the Jungle wherever you roam, The woods are astir at the close of the day— We exiles are waiting for letters from Home— Let the robber retreat; let the tiger turn tail, In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail!
With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in, He turns to the foot-path that leads up the hill— The bags on his back, and a cloth round his chin, And, tucked in his belt, the Post-Office bill;— "Despatched on this date, as received by the rail, Per runner, two bags of the Overland-Mail."
Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim. Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff. Does the tempest cry "Halt"? What are tempests to him? The service admits not a "but" or an "if "; While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear without fail, In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail.
From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir, From level to upland, from upland to crest, ​From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur, Fly the soft-sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest. From rail to ravine—to the peak from the vale— Up, up through the night goes the Overland-Mail.
There's a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road— A jingle of bells on the foot-path below— There's a scuffle above in the monkeys' abode— The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow— For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail;— In the name of the Empress the Overland-Mail.
Rudyard Kipling.