OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# On the Sublime/Chapter 33

XXXIII
But supposing now that we assume the existence of a really unblemished and irreproachable writer. Is it not worth while to raise the whole question whether in poetry and prose we should prefer sublimity accompanied by some faults, or a style which never rising above moderate excellence never stumbles and never requires correction? and again, whether the first place in literature is justly to be assigned to the more numerous, or the loftier excellences? For these are questions proper to an inquiry on the Sublime, and urgently asking for settlement.
2I know, then, that the largest intellects are far from, being the most exact. A mind always intent on correctness is apt to be dissipated in trifles; but in great affluence of thought, as in vast material wealth, there must needs be an occasional neglect of detail. And is it not inevitably so? Is it not by risking nothing, by never aiming high, that a writer of low or middling powers keeps generally clear of faults and secure of blame? whereas the loftier walks of literature are by their very loftiness perilous?3 I am well aware, again, that there is a law by which in all human productions the weak points catch the eye first, by which their faults ​remain indelibly stamped on the memory, while their beauties quickly fade away.4 Yet, though I have myself noted not a few faulty passages in Homer and in other authors of the highest rank, and though I am far from being partial to their failings, nevertheless I would call them not so much wilful blunders as oversights which were allowed to pass unregarded through that contempt of little things, that "brave disorder," which is natural to an exalted genius; and I still think that the greater excellences, though not everywhere equally sustained, ought always to be voted to the first place in literature, if for no other reason, for the mere grandeur of soul they evince. Let us take an instance: Apollonius in his Argonautica has given us a poem actually faultless; and in his pastoral poetry Theocritus is eminently happy, except when he occasionally attempts another style. And what then? Would you rather be a Homer or an Apollonius?5 Or take Eratosthenes and his Erigone; because that little work is without a flaw, is he therefore a greater poet than Archilochus, with all his disorderly profusion? greater than that impetuous, that god-gifted genius, which chafed against the restraints of law? or in lyric poetry would you choose to be a Bacchylides or a Pindar? in tragedy a Sophocles or (save the mark!) an Io of Chios? Yet Io and Bacchylides never stumble, their style is ​always neat, always pretty; while Pindar and Sophocles sometimes move onwards with a wide blaze of splendour, but often drop out of view in sudden and disastrous eclipse. Nevertheless no one in his senses would deny that a single play of Sophocles, the Oedipus, is of higher value than all the dramas of Io put together.
# On the Sublime/Chapter 36

XXXVI
How much more do these principles apply to the Sublime in literature, where grandeur is never, as it sometimes is in nature, dissociated from utility and advantage. Therefore all those who have achieved it, however far from faultless, are still more than mortal. When a writer uses any other resource he shows himself to be a man; but the Sublime lifts him near to the great spirit of the Deity. He who makes no slips must be satisfied with negative approbation, but he who is sublime commands positive reverence.2 Why need I add that each one of those great writers often redeems all his errors by one grand and masterly stroke? But the strongest point of all is that, if you were to pick out all the blunders of Homer, Demosthenes, Plato, and all the greatest names in literature, and add them together, they would be found to bear a very small, or rather an infinitesimal proportion to the passages in which ​these supreme masters have attained absolute perfection. Therefore it is that all posterity, whose judgment envy herself cannot impeach, has brought and bestowed on them the crown of glory, has guarded their fame until this day against all attack, and is likely to preserve it
"As long as lofty trees shall grow, And restless waters seaward flow."
3It has been urged by one writer that we should not prefer the huge disproportioned Colossus to the Doryphorus of Polycletus. But (to give one out of many possible answers) in art we admire exactness, in the works of nature magnificence; and it is from nature that man derives the faculty of speech. Whereas, then, in statuary we look for close resemblance to humanity, in literature we require something which transcends humanity.4 Nevertheless (to reiterate the advice which we gave at the beginning of this essay), since that success which consists in avoidance of error is usually the gift of art, while high, though unequal excellence is the attribute of genius, it is proper on all occasions to call in art as an ally to nature. By the combined resources of these two we may hope to achieve perfection.
Such are the conclusions which were forced upon me concerning the points at issue; but every one may consult his own taste.
# On the Sublime/Chapter 37

XXXVII
To return, however, from this long digression; closely allied to metaphors are comparisons and similes, differing only in this * * *
# Poems: New and Old (Newbolt)/The Death of Admiral Blake

The Death of Admiral Blake
(August 7th, 1657)
# Poems: New and Old (Newbolt)/The Fighting Téméraire

The Fighting Téméraire
# Poems: New and Old (Newbolt)/The Bright Medusa

The Bright Medusa
(1807)
# Poems: New and Old (Newbolt)/The Hundredth Year

The Hundredth Year
"Drake, and Blake, and Nelson's mighty name."
# Poems: New and Old (Newbolt)/Ode for Trafalgar Day, 1905

Ode for Trafalgar Day, 1905
"Partial firing continued until 4.30, when a victory having been reported to the Right Honourable Lord Viscount Nelson, K.B., and Commander-in-Chief, he then died of his wound."—Log of the Victory, October 21, 1805.
# Poems: New and Old (Newbolt)/Northumberland

Northumberland
"The Old and Bold."
# Poems: New and Old (Newbolt)/Minora Sidera

Minora Sidera
(The Dictionary of National Biography)
# Poems: New and Old (Newbolt)/San Stefano

San Stefano
(A Ballad of the Bold Menelaus)
# Poems: New and Old (Newbolt)/St. George's Day

St. George's Day
Ypres, 1915.
# Poems: New and Old (Newbolt)/Sailing at Dawn

POEMS: NEW AND OLD
Songs of the Fleet
I
Sailing at Dawn
# Penguin Books v. New Christian Church of Full Endeavor

* Penguin Books, U.S.A., et al. v. New Christian Church of Full Endeavor, et al. (2000)
* Penguin Books, U.S.A., et al. v. New Christian Church of Full Endeavor, et al. (2003)
# Penfield Company of California v. Securities & Exchange Commission

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.

## Dissenting Opinion

    Frankfurter
United States Supreme Court
330 U.S. 585
Penfield Company of California v. Securities & Exchange Commission
Argued: Jan. 16, 1947. --- Decided: March 31, 1947
See 331 U.S. 865, 67 S.Ct. 1301.
[Syllabus from pages 585-587 intentionally omitted]
Mr. Morris Lavine, of Los Angeles, Cal., for petitioners.
Mr. Roger S. Foster, of Washington, D.C., for respondent.
Mr. Justice DOUGLAS delivered the opinion of the Court.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Penfield v. Chesapeake, O. & S. W. Railroad Company

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
134 U.S. 351
Penfield v. Chesapeake, O. & S. W. Railroad Company
Rufus M. Williams, for plaintiff in error.
B. F. Tracy and W. W. MacFarland, for defendant in error.
Mr. Justice HARLAN, after stating the facts in the foregoing language, delivered the opinion of the court.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Peninsular Iron Company v. Stone

* related portals: Supreme Court of the United States.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
United States Supreme Court
121 U.S. 631
Peninsular Iron Company v. Stone
[W. A. Underwood and A. Howell, for appellants.
J. H. Anderson, for appellees.
WAITE, C. J.

## Notes

This work is in the public domain in the United States because it is a work of the United States federal government (see 17 U.S.C. 105).
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Opals (Custance)/Autumn Night

Autumn Night
# Opals (Custance)/Delight

Delight
# Opals (Custance)/Doubts

Doubts
# Opals (Custance)/An April Mood

An April Mood
# Opals (Custance)/Bereft

Bereft
# Opals (Custance)/An Impression

An Impression
# Opals (Custance)/Blind Love

Blind Love
# Opals (Custance)/Comforted

Comforted
# Opals (Custance)/Dream Tryst

Dreamed Tryst
# Opals (Custance)/Fantasy

Fantasy
# Penny Plain

By Anna Buchan, writing under the pen name O. Douglas
TO
MY BROTHER WALTER
Shopman: "You may have your choice—penny plain or twopence coloured."
Solemn Small Boy: "Penny plain, please. It's better value for the money."

## Contents

* CHAPTER I
* CHAPTER II
* CHAPTER III
* CHAPTER IV
* CHAPTER V
* CHAPTER VI
* CHAPTER VII
* CHAPTER VIII
* CHAPTER IX
* CHAPTER X
* CHAPTER XI
* CHAPTER XII
* CHAPTER XIII
* CHAPTER XIV
* CHAPTER XV
* CHAPTER XVI
* CHAPTER XVII
* CHAPTER XVIII
* CHAPTER XIX
* CHAPTER XX
* CHAPTER XXI
* CHAPTER XXII
* CHAPTER XXIII
* CHAPTER XXIV
* CHAPTER XXV
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 1948, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 75 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
# Penny Cyclopedia/Mastiff

The penny cyclopædia of the Society for the diffusion of useful knowledge. 1833.
The name of a variety of dog of a very old English breed, now seldom seen in its original state of purity. Manwood states that the word is derived from mase thefese, because it is supposed to terrify thieves by its voice, which, when the animal is excited, is fearfully deep and loud. This is the Dogue de forte race of Buffon and the French, the Mastivus of Ray, the Canis Molossus of Linnæus, and the Villaticus or Catenarius of Dr. Caius.
A true-bred mastiff is of considerable size, and very stoutly built. The head is well developed and large, the lips deep and pendulous on each side of the mouth, and the whole aspect noble.
It appears from Claudian and Gratius that the British dogs, mastiffs probably, were highly prised at Rome; and Camden notices the employment of a special officer, Procurator Cynegii, appointed in Britain for superintending the breed of these dogs and their transmission to that city, where they appeared in the combats of animals at the amphitheatre, and sometimes upon occasions even more cruel, for there can be little doubt that they were set to worry those unhappy Christians whom the tyrants of the time ordered to be sewed up in the skins of beasts and then exposed to the attacks of those powerful and savage dogs. Pennant quotes Strabo for the fact that the Gauls trained British mastiffs for war, and used them in their battles. According to Dr. Caius, three were a match for a bear, and four for a lion; but Stow mentions a lion fight with three of these dogs, in which, though two were disabled, and afterward died, the lion was so much harassed that he retreated, and refused to resume the battle.
The mastiff is capable of great attachment, and when kept as a guard is of unfailing vigilance, giving the alarm by its powerful bark, and never ceasing till it has roused the family or secured the intruder. It is now comparatively little used as a watchdog, especially in great towns, where an active police has almost entirely superseded it.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/Honor

HONOR
DIVINE abstraction, shadowy image, dream More vital than substantial shapes made strong By all the tireless energies of wrong,— Who should deny thy being would blaspheme The power that made thy loveliness supreme, Lending thee accents of auroral song To comfort those who unto thee belong, Though they go down to dark Cocytus' stream.
Patient as Time art thou, eternal one! Yet who may change thy judgments—or destroy? The conqueror whom wily Egypt won Found with life's honeyed draught a bitter blent; And Hector, fallen by the walls of Troy, Looked up, and saw thy face, and was content.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/In War-Time—Gazing Seaward

IN WAR-TIME
GAZING SEAWARD
BREAKERS that beat against the shore With pulsing throb and angry roar And multitudinous meanings evermore,— Ye are to me as souls untaught of pain, That bent upon a fruitless quest Still dash themselves 'gainst barrier laws in vain; But, oh, beyond your tumult and unrest, Is Ocean like the Everlasting Will,— So vast, so deep, so still!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/In War-Time—An American Homeward Bound

Also published in The Bellman.
IN WAR-TIME
AN AMERICAN HOMEWARD BOUND
FURTHER and further we leave the scene Of war—and of England's care; I try to keep my mind serene,— But my heart stays there;
For a distant song of pain and wrong My spirit doth deep confuse, And I sit all day on the deck, and long— And long for news!
I seem to see them in battle-line— Heroes with hearts of gold, But of their victory a sign The Fates withhold;
And the hours too tardy-footed pass, The voiceless hush grows dense Mid the imaginings, alas! That feed suspense.
Oh, might I lie on the wind, or fly In the wilful sea-bird's track, Would I hurry on, with a homesick cry,— Or hasten back?
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/Immortal

IMMORTAL
HOW living are the dead! Enshrined, but not apart, How safe within the heart We hold them still—our dead, Whatever else be fled!
Our constancy is deep Toward those who lie asleep, Forgetful of the strain and mortal strife That are so large a part of this our earthly life.
They are our very own: From them—from them alone, Nothing can us estrange— Nor blight autumnal, no; nor wintry change!
The midnight moments keep A place for them; and though we wake to weep, They are beside us: still, in joy, in pain— In every crucial hour, they come again, Angelic from above— Bearing the gifts of blessing and of love— Until the shadowy path they lonely trod Becomes for us a bridge that upward leads to God.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/In Dreamland

IN DREAMLAND
IN dreamland is a castle fair Wherein my love doth dwell: Its turrets waver into air From fields where asphodel And poppy keep not watch, but sleep, 'Neath an enchanter's spell.
Pale offspring of a starlit sky, One rose—for need like mine— Has over-climbed the ivies high, About her sill to twine, And there, abloom, with rare perfume Makes exquisite her shrine.
Still, night by night, the wondrous bird That ne'er is heard by day, Thrills, with my heart's unspoken word, Those mystic turrets gray, And heavened above, sings to my love His plaintive roundelay. ​Ah, would that I, through tender gloom Upmounting, lover-wise, Might find her in the fragrant room,— Her virgin Paradise,— But for one night behold the light Beam in her charmèd eyes!
Alas! I shall nor lead her down The steep and skyey stair, Nor find her here in the dull town, The sunlight on her hair,— Yet, could we meet, my heart would greet And know her anywhere!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/In Loneliness

IN LONELINESS
ISEULT OF BRITTANY
THEY are at rest. How still it is—and cold! The morrow comes; the night is growing old. They are at rest. Why then, unresting, keep In vigil lone, a pain that will not sleep— An anguish, only to itself confessed, That hushed a moment lies, Then wakes to sudden eager life, and cries?
At rest?
Ah, me! The wind wails by, Like to a grief that would but cannot die. How sore the heart can ache, Yet beat and beat and beat, and never break!
(Hearken!—Was that a child's awaking cry?)
It was the sea—the ever troubled sea! My little ones, it was the sea, That moans unceasingly ​One dear refrain repeating o'er and o'er:— "Tristram returns no more— Tristram returns, returns—ah, never more!"
Ashen the fire,— Ashen: like dead desire. The dawn breaks chill, The children, sleeping, think their father here. O Tristram! might I, also, dream you near!— Mine—mine without regret! As when I nursed your wound, and taught you to forget The cruel torment of your love for her,— The poisoned wine, the still avenging hate, The ship, the pain, the unrepenting Fate, The yearning that is death, yet doth not kill!
(Sleep, little ones! your mother guards you still.)
They are at rest, Their sorrows over. Forgetful of the tortured past, They are at rest at last, Sad lover by sad lover. Oh, drear to me The voices of the sea-birds, and the sea— ​The sea that moans against the shore, Repeating ceaselessly:— "Tristram returns no more, Returns—ah, never, never more!"
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/In Memory of Caroline Furness Jayne

IN MEMORY OF CAROLINE FURNESS JAYNE
COULDST thou—thou, also, die, whom life so cherished? Couldst thou go from us, in thy beauteous June, Leaving a sense of joy untimely perished, Of music stilled too soon?
We had not dreamed, fair child, that thou before us Shouldst find the meadows of the asphodel— Shouldst hear, ere we, "the high imagined chorus,"— But, ah, for thee, 't is well!
Not thine to creep reluctant to death's portal: Thy spirit from the mirk of transient things Rose radiant to the light of the immortal, With eager, outstretched wings!
For the grave gods, bestowing every blessing Upon a child of Earth, ere grief should come, Crowned thee, in youth, with the mild touch caressing That calls their loved ones home!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/Homeward

HOMEWARD
WHEN I come to my Father's house he will hear me: I shall not need With words implore Compassion at my Father's door: With yearning mute my heart will plead, And my Father's heart will hear me.
One thought all the weary day hath caressed me: Though cloud-o'ercast Is the way I go, Though steep is the hill I must climb, yet, oh, When evening falls and the light is past, At my Father's house I will rest me.
For thither,—whatsoe'er betide me; Howe'er I stray, Beset by fears, Wearied by effort, or blinded by tears,— Ah, surely I shall find my way, Though none there be to guide me!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume II/I Know Not How to Find the Spring

I KNOW NOT HOW TO FIND THE SPRING
I KNOW not how to find the Spring, Though violets are here, And in the boughs high over me The birds are fluting clear; The magic and the melody, The rapture—all are fled, And could they wake, they would but break My heart, now you are dead.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/A Meeting in the Forest

A MEETING IN THE FOREST
LEAVING my tent once as the dawn grew fair, Behold! we stood at gaze, a deer and I, Regarding one another furtively,— Too much surprised, too curious for a care Beyond the miracle that each was there! An instant, then—as arrow swift doth fly, Sudden as light that darts across the sky—
Gone was he: and the wood seemed reft and bare.
What startled so the gentle, soft-eyed thing? 'T was but my love his idle fear outran— Love that would fain have fed him shoots of Spring, Balsam and cedar from the groves of Pan! Why fled he? Ah, a voice admonishing Whispered the free, wild creature: "It is Man!"
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/At Break of Day

AT BREAK OF DAY
I THOUGHT that past the gates of doom, Where Orpheus played a strain divine Of love importunate as mine, Unto the dwellings of the dead I came through paths of gloom.
Around me, looming dark through cloud, Vast walls arose whence mournful fell The shadow and the hush of hell; And silence, brooding, palpable, enwrapped me like a shroud.
Naught blossomed there; in that chill place Where longing dwells divorced from hope, Naught to a joyless horoscope Lent prophecies of future grace, but—I beheld thy face!
And I awoke,—songs trembling near,— Awoke and saw day's chariot pass Bright gleaming o'er the meadow-grass, And knew this glad earth without thee, than realms of Death more drear!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/A Maid's Defence

A MAID'S DEFENCE
'TWERE little to renounce what now I hold: A treasure that makes poor, a pomp that tires, A vernal glow that kindles autumn fires, A youth that, wasteful in its haste, grows old; 'T were little to relinquish pleasure doled In meagre measure to my swift desires, To give what nor delights me nor inspires, In free exchange for Love's all-prizèd gold;
Yet there is something it were pain to yield, Which I should part with, Love, in welcoming thee: A shy uncertainty that dearer seems Than e'en thy gifts, my firm defence and shield: The dim ideal of my waking dreams, The Love unknown, that distant, beckons me!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/A Realm of Wonder

A REALM OF WONDER
FAR off there is a realm of wonder,— Know you its name? No region the wide heavens under Could be the same! Dark orange groves it hath, and alleys With sunlit verdure covered over High-mounting hills, great river valleys Enriched by crops of maize and clover: A Land apart, from all asunder,— Know you its name?
Walls hath it—two. One—of the mind,— To the outside world forever blind, Itself within itself hath still confined; Wherefore its brooding and exclusive spirit Craves but for progress in experience sown, Noiseless as Nature's own; And with that reverence it doth inherit, Hearkens obediently its sages, Mysteriously wise from distant ages, ​And with unconscious, tireless sacrifice Creates a paradise.
A paradise you say, Stretching away—and endlessly away!— A garden—lovelily abloom With rice and silk and tea, Cotton and yam and wheat, all fair to see, And breathing forth an exquisite perfume Of mingled mulberry and orange blows, Azalea and rose: A garden, yet a tomb Where myriads, sleeping, are remembered still By myriads more, who glad their precepts keep, And honor them in sleep.
What centuries of industries speak here! What irrigating waters, silver-clear, Skirting the uplands, rise, tier above tier! What thronged canals, through the Delta plain extending Hundreds of miles! What junks, what bankside villages unending, What cottages with brown and green roof-tiles! What fanes! what wildwood temples without cease! What unperturbed tranquillity! what peace!
​Far off there is a realm of wonder,— Know you its name? No region the wide heavens under Could be the same!— So calm, productive, full of beauty; Unto contentment so inviting! A Land, through service and through duty, The past and future so uniting That Death itself them may not sunder!— Know you its name?
Back of the centuries its birth-hour lonely Men vainly seek: Of its beginnings legend only And myth may speak: Ere Greece of beauty dreamed, or Rome of power, In some mysterious, unrecorded hour, Darkling from hushed obscurity it sprung
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Ab Humo

AB HUMO
THE seedling hidden in the sod Were ill content immured to stay; Slowly it upward makes its way And finds the light at last, thank God!
The most despised of mortal things— The worm devoid of hope or bliss, Discovers in the chrysalis Too narrow space for urgent wings.
These are my kindred of the clay; But as I struggle from the ground Such weakness in my strength is found, I seem less fortunate than they;
Yet though my progress be but slow, And failure oft obscure the past, I, too, victorious at last, Shall reach the longed-for light, I know!