OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Before the Dawn

BEFORE THE DAWN
I LOOKED on beauteous forms, as I lay dreaming, But on no form as beautiful as thine, Who here, amid the moonbeams white and holy, Standest in silence by this bed of mine.
I looked on faces fair, as I lay sleeping, But on no face that seemed as nobly sweet As that which in the pallid light above me My wondering, half-awakened sense doth greet.
Who and what art thou? Have I kept thee waiting? My sleep was as a river deep and calm; Bring'st thou perchance some word of import for me? Hast thou, for broken hearts, like mine, some balm?
Who and what art thou? In my tranquil vision I gazed through rifted clouds on azure skies,— I seemed to gaze beyond them,—but naught moved me Like the deep pity in thy brooding eyes.
​Why art thou here to-night? I have been lonely— Have waited, prayed, for such an one as thou, To still with presence kind my pulse's throbbing, To lay a cooling touch upon my brow.
Tell me thy name! Then, pain and fear forgotten, I straightway will arise and follow thee, Who, so I think, art hither come to guide me To larger hope and opportunity.
Tell me thy name! I long, I need, to hear it! Thy name!—I may not plead, for failing breath,— With look compassionate, the august stranger Made answer very softly: "I am Death."
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Autumn

AUTUMN
IN her arms unconscious lying, Cytherea's love is dying. On the hill and in the valley, Through the grove and sun-lit alley, Drooping flower and fading leaf Share her grief. But in realms of gloom and night Proserpine enwreathes her hair, And a gleam of tender light Seems to pierce the darkness there: "Ah!" she sighs, "I long have waited With the calm of hopeless pain, But to me, the sorrow-fated, Comes the lost one back again! Lovely things that seem to die Hither now will quickly hie, And to-morrow, in the gloom Of this sad and sunless tomb, Butterflies will lightly hover, As o'er meadows fair;" she saith, "For Adonis brings the clover With his breath!"
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Before the Hour

BEFORE THE HOUR
UNTIMELY blossom! poor, impatient thing, That starting rashly from the sheltering mould Bravest the peevish wind and sullen cold, Mistaking thine own ardors for the spring!— Thou to my heart a memory dost bring Of hopes once fair like thee, like thee too bold To breathe their fragrance, and their flowers unfold, That droop'd, of wintry rigors languishing.
Nor birds, nor bees, nor waters murmuring low, Nor breezes blown from any Arcady, Found they,—earth's welcome waiting to bestow; Yet sweet, they felt, sweeter than dreams, would be The summer they had sought too soon to know,— The summer they should never live to see!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Betrothal

BETROTHAL
BOTH your hands? . . . What mean they, dear? I, unworthy,—dare I claim you? Then, against the world, I hold you: Mine—forever mine!
Men have waked from dreams of joy: Teach me to believe this rapture! Lift your eyes! O my beloved, Let me read your heart!
Is it true? . . . Ah, me! those eyes! How divinely kind!—how tender! Doubt itself could not distrust them, Or resist their light!
Dear, without you, I have been Poorer than the humblest beggar Who against your door at nightfall Kneeling, asked for bread:
I have gazed upon your face And have felt such fear oppress me ​That I trembled. From this moment, Nothing fear I more!
For whatever perils come, Nothing henceforth can divide us; Neither follies nor ambitions— Neither joys nor tears:
Never can you go so far That my love shall fail to find you; Seeking ever to deserve you, Upward striving still;
And though seas should lie between, I shall feel that you are near me: In the twilight and night-season I shall hear your voice.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Better to Die

BETTER TO DIE
BETTER to die, where gallant men are dying, Than to live on with them that basely fly: Better to fall, the soulless Fates defying, Than unassailed to wander vainly, trying To turn one's face from an accusing sky!
Days matter not, nor years to the undaunted; To live is nothing,—but to nobly live! The poorest visions of the honor-haunted Are better worth than pleasure-masks enchanted, And they win life who life for others give.
The planets in their watchful course behold them— To live is nothing,—but to nobly live!— For though the Earth with mother-hands remold them, Though Ocean in his billowy arms enfold them, They are as gods, who life to others give!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Be Thou My Guide

BE THOU MY GUIDE
BE Thou my guide, and I will walk in darkness As one who treads the beamy heights of day, Feeling a gladness amid desert sadness, And breathing vernal fragrance all the way.
Be Thou my wealth, and, reft of all besides Thee, I will forget the strife for meaner things, Blest in the sweetness of thy rare completeness, And opulent beyond the dream of kings.
Be Thou my strength, O lowly One and saintly! And, though unvisioned ills about me throng, Though danger woo me and deceit pursue me, Yet in the thought of Thee I will be strong!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Beatrice Before Death

BEATRICE BEFORE DEATH
On rereading Shelley's "Cenci"
THE day, from slumber waking, dawns most fair. O Helios!—thou that abhorrest night, Canst thou look down with radiance so bright Upon a world woe-darkened?—look, nor care What torments 'neath thy glorious beams prepare For mortals whom relentless furies blight? Some young, perchance, who never knew delight, Some innocent, who long life's joys to share?
Forgive, O Heaven, if life I still desire! There is a thought can make stern Death my friend: Let me remember what man was my sire— I shall so long his part in me to fly, That with impatience I shall wait my end, And find it sweet, before I live, to die!
# Poems (Brown)

POEMS
BY
CARRIE L. BROWN.
BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY C. M. BROWN,
CORNER CHAUNCY AND ESSEX STS.
1867.
ELECTROTYPED AT THE
BOSTON STEREOTYPE FOUNDRY,
4 SPRING LANE.
NOTLE.
The father of the author, who publishes this little book of poems, would state, in issuing them for public acceptance, that he does so in obedience to the earnest solicitations of many friends desirous of procuring a copy; and also to encourage his child in the further prosecution and development of those powers which a beneficent and all-wise Providence has bestowed upon her. In a critical examination of its pages, there may, and doubtless will, be found some rhythmical errors; but when we take into consideration the tender age of the author,—she being now but fifteen years old,—that her advantages have been quite limited, owing to ill health, and that some of the poems were prepared five years since, we think that her compositions will compare favorably with the earlier productions of those poetical writers who have preceded her: and we ask, in her behalf, a kind reception of her little work.
DEDICATED TO MY PARENTS,
WITH
A DAUGHTER'S LOVE.
CONTENTS.
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 (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/To the Daisy

IX.
TO THE DAISY.
Sweet Flower! belike one day to have A place upon thy Poet's grave, I welcome thee once more: But He, who was on land, at sea, My Brother, too, in loving thee, Although he loved more silently, Sleeps by his native shore.
Ah! hopeful, hopeful was the day When to that Ship he bent his way, To govern and to guide: His wish was gained: a little time Would bring him back in manhood's prime, And free for life, these hills to climb, With all his wants supplied.
​And full of hope day followed day While that stout Ship at anchor lay Beside the shores of Wight; The May had then made ail things green; And, floating there in pomp serene, That Ship was goodly to be seen, His pride and his delight!
Yet then, when called ashore, he sought The tender peace of rural thought; In more than happy mood To your abodes, bright daisy Flowers! He then would steal at leisure hours, And loved you glittering in your bowers, A starry multitude.
But hark the word!—the Ship is gone;— From her long course returns:—anon Sets sail:—in season due Once more on English earth they stand: But, when a third time from the land They parted, sorrow was at hand For Him and for his Crew.
​Ill fated Vessel!—ghastly shock! —At length delivered from the rock The deep she hath regained; And through the stormy night they steer, Labouring for life, in hope and fear, Towards a safer shore—how near, Yet not to be attained!
Silence! the brave Commander cried; To that calm word a shriek replied, It was the last death-shriek. —A few appear by morning light, Preserved upon the tall mast's height: Oft in my Soul I see that sight; But one dear remnant of the night— For him in vain I seek.
Six weeks beneath the moving sea He lay in slumber quietly; Unforced by wind or wave To quit the Ship for which he died, (All claims of duty satisfied;) And there they found him at her side; And bore him to the grave.
​Vain service! yet not vainly done For this, if other end were none, That he, who had been cast Upon a way of life unmeet For such a gentle Soul and sweet, Should find an undisturbed retreat Near what he loved, at last;
That neighbourhood of grove and field To Him a resting-place should yield, A meek man and a brave! The birds shall sing and ocean make A mournful murmur for his sake; And Thou, sweet Flower, shalt sleep and wake Upon his senseless grave!
# Poems (Dorr)

POEMS BY
JULIA C. R. DORR
BY
JULIA C. R. DORR
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
MCMXIII
Copyright, 1879, 1885, 1892, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
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 of Childhood/The Bench-Legged Fyce

New York, C. Scribner's Sons, pages 154–156
THE BENCH-LEGGED FYCE
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Battle of Blenheim

The Battle of Blenheim.
Have you been to Woodstock, near Oxford, England? If so, you have seen the palace of the Duke of Marlborough, who won the battle of Blenheim. The main point of the poem is the doubtful honour in killing in our great wars. Southey, the poet, lived from 1774 to 1843.
It was a summer's evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun; And by him sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he, beside the rivulet, In playing there, had found. ​He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And, with a natural sigh, "'Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory!
"I find them in the garden, For there's many hereabout; And often when I go to plow, The plowshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory!"
"Now tell us what 'twas all about," Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; "Now tell us all about the war, And what they killed each other for."
"It was the English," Kaspar cried, "Who put the French to rout; But what they killed each other for I could not well make out. But everybody said," quoth he, "That 'twas a famous victory!
"My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by: ​They burned his dwelling to the ground And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.
"With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide; And many a childing mother then And new-born baby died. But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.
"They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun. But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory.
"Great praise the Duke of Marlborough won, And our good Prince Eugene." "Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!" Said little Wilhelmine. "Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he, "It was a famous victory!
"And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win." "But what good came of it at last?" Quoth little Peterkin. "Why, that I cannot tell," said he, "But 'twas a famous victory."
Robert Southey.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Bluebell of Scotland

The Bluebell of Scotland.
Oh where! and oh where! is your Highland laddie gone? He's gone to fight the French for King George upon the throne; And it's oh! in my heart how I wish him safe at home.
Oh where! and oh where! does your Highland laddie dwell? He dwells in merry Scotland at the sign of the Bluebell; And it's oh! in my heart that I love my laddie well.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Captain's Daughter

The Captain's Daughter.
"The Captain's Daughter," by James T. Fields (1816-81), carries weight with every young audience. It is pointed to an end that children love—viz., trust in a higher power.
We were crowded in the cabin, Not a soul would dare to sleep,— It was midnight on the waters, And a storm was on the deep.
​'Tis a fearful thing in winter To be shattered by the blast, And to hear the rattling trumpet Thunder, "Cut away the mast!"
So we shuddered there in silence,— For the stoutest held his breath, While the hungry sea was roaring And the breakers talked with Death.
As thus we sat in darkness, Each one busy with his prayers, "We are lost!" the captain shouted As he staggered down the stairs.
But his little daughter whispered, As she took his icy hand, "Isn't God upon the ocean, Just the same as on the land?"
Then we kissed the little maiden. And we spoke in better cheer, And we anchored safe in harbour When the morn was shining clear.
James T. Fields.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Brook

The Brook.
Tennyson's "The Brook" is included out of love to a dear old schoolmate in Colorado. The real brook, near Cambridge, England, is tame compared to your Colorado streams, O beloved comrade. This poem is well liked by the majority of pupils. (1809-92.)
I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.
I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling.
​I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers.
I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeams dance Against my sandy shallows.
I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses.
And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.
Alfred Tennyson.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna

The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna.
"The Burial of Sir John Moore" was one of my reading-lessons when I was a child. A distinguished teacher says: "It has become a part of popular education, as has also "The Eve of Waterloo" and "The Death of Napoleon." They are all poems of great rhythmical swing, intense and graphic. (1791-1823.)
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.
We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning.
No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, And smoothed down his lonely pillow. ​That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow!
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,— But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone— But we left him alone with his glory!
C. Wolfe.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Butterfly and the Bee

The Butterfly and the Bee.
"The Butterfly and the Bee," by William Lisle Bowles (1762-1850), is recommended by some school-girls. It carries a lesson in favour of the worker.
Methought I heard a butterfly Say to a labouring bee: "Thou hast no colours of the sky On painted wings like me."
"Poor child of vanity! those dyes, And colours bright and rare," With mild reproof, the bee replies, "Are all beneath my care.
"Content I toil from morn to eve, And scorning idleness, To tribes of gaudy sloth I leave The vanity of dress."
William Lisle Bowles.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Chambered Nautilus

The Chambered Nautilus.
People are more and more coming to recognise the fact that each individual soul has a right to its own stages of development. "The Chambered Nautilus" is for that reason beloved of the masses. It is one of the grandest poems ever written. "Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul!" This line alone would make the poem immortal. (1809-94.)
This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sailed the unshadowed main,— The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.
​Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell, Before thee lies revealed,— Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed!
Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more.
Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:—
Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Boy Who Never Told a Lie

The Boy Who Never Told a Lie.
"The Boy Who Never Told a Lie" (anonymous), as well as "Whatever Brawls Disturb the Street," by Isaac Watts (1674-1748), are real gems. A few years ago they were more in favour than the poorer verse that has been put forward. But they are sure to be revived.
Once there was a little boy, With curly hair and pleasant eye— A boy who always told the truth, And never, never told a lie.
And when he trotted off to school, The children all about would cry, "There goes the curly-headed boy— The boy that never tells a lie."
And everybody loved him so, Because he always told the truth, That every day, as he grew up, 'Twas said, "There goes the honest youth."
​And when the people that stood near Would turn to ask the reason why, The answer would be always this: "Because he never tells a lie."
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/The Bugle Song

The Bugle Song.
"The Bugle Song" (by Alfred Tennyson, 1809-90), says Heydrick, "has for its central theme the undying power of human love. The music is notable for sweetness and delicacy."
The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Alfred Tennyson.
# Poems (Fields)/The Dead

THE DEAD.
"Still the same, no charm forgot,— Nothing lost that Time had given."
# Poems (Fields)/To a Friend

TO A FRIEND.
Go, with a manly heart, Where courage leads the brave,— High thoughts, not years, have stamped their part, Who shunned the coward's grave.
Clear, to the eye of youth, Their record stands enrolled, Who held aloft the flag of Truth, Nor slept beneath its fold.
They heard the trumpet sound Where hosts to battle trod, And marched along that burning ground; Fear not! they rest with God.
​Like them advance in love, And upward bend thy sight; Win Faith through Prayer; He rules above Who still protects the right.
# Poems (Fields)/To a Painter

TO A PAINTER.
* I've sailed an ocean to behold the Rhine,
* That world of beauty bursting on the view,—
* But now your canvas wafts to me the vine
* And rock-clad hills long since I wandered through.
* Twin-castled River, far away no more,—
* What further need the Atlantic wave to plough?
* You've brought old Coblentz to my very door,
* And Ehrenbreitstein is my neighbor now!
# Poems (Fields)/Villager's Winter-Evening Song

VILLAGER'S WINTER-EVENING SONG.
Not a leaf on the tree,—not a bud in the hollow, Where late swung the blue-bell, and blossomed the rose; And hushed is the cry of the swift-darting swallow, That circled the lake in the twilight's dim close.
Gone, gone are the woodbine and sweet-scented brier, That bloomed o'er the hillock and gladdened the vale, And the vine, that uplifted its green-pointed spire, Hangs drooping and sear on the frost-covered pale.
And hark to the gush of the deep-welling fountain, That prattled and shone in the light of the moon; Soon, soon shall its rushing be still on the mountain, And locked up in silence its frolicsome tune.
​Then heap up the hearth-stone with dry forest-branches, And gather about me, my children, in glee; For cold on the upland the stormy wind launches, And dear is the home of my loved ones to me.
# Poems (Fields)/To One Beneath the Waves

TO ONE BENEATH THE WAVES.
* Come back from Memory's mourning urn,
* And bless my sight again;
* For now in restless dreams I turn
* To clasp thy hand,—in vain!
* I bid thy gentle spirit come
* And look once more on me;
* But thou art slumbering where the foam
* Rolls madly o'er the sea.
* Alas! how soon our better years
* To tempest winds are blown,
* And all our hopes, and joys, and fears
* Alike are widely strown;— ​She rests in yonder village- mound,
* Who should have been thy bride,
* And thou art sleeping 'neath the sound
* Of ocean's flowing tide.