OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems (Dickinson)/With a Flower

VII.
WITH A FLOWER.
I hide myself within my flower, That wearing on your breast, You, unsuspecting, wear me too— And angels know the rest.
I hide myself within my flower, That, fading from your vase, You, unsuspecting, feel for me Almost a loneliness.
# Poems (Donne)/Elegie I

This transcription from the 1633 printing of Poems duplicates the use of the long s as in the original. A modernized edition is available at Elegy I (1896).
Fond woman, which would'ſt have thy huſband die, And yet complain'ſt of his great jealouſie; If ſwolne with poyſon, hee lay in his laſt bed, His body with a ſere-barke covered, Drawing his breath, as quick and ſhort, as can The nimbleſt crocheting Muſitian, Ready with loathſome vomiting to ſpue His Soule out of one hell, into a new, Made deafe with his poore kindreds howling cries, Begging with few feign'd teares great legacies, Thou would'ſt not weep, but jolly, 'and frolicke bee, As a ſlave, which to morrow ſhould be free. Yet weep'ſt thou, when thou ſeeſt him hungerly Swallow his owne death, hearts-bane jealouſie? O give him many thanks, he is courteous, That in ſuſpecting kindly warneth us. Wee muſt not, as we us'd, flout openly, In ſcoffing ridles, his deformitie; Nor at his boord together being fatt, With words, nor touch, ſcarce lookes, adulterate. Nor when he ſwolne, and pamper'd with great fare, Sits downe and ſnorts, cag'd in his basket chaire, Muſt wee uſurpe his owne bed any more, Nor kiſſe and play in his houſe, as before. Now I ſee many dangers; for it is His realme, his caſtle, and his dioceſſe. But if, as envious men, which would revile Their Prince, or coyne his gold, themſelves exile Into another countrie, 'and doe it there, Wee play 'in another houſe, what ſhould we feare? There we will scorn his houſhold policies, His ſeely plots, and penſionary ſpies, As the inhabitants of Thames right ſide Do Londons Major, or Germans the Pope's pride.
# Poems (Dickinson)/Whether my bark went down at sea

XXIV.
Whether my bark went down at sea, Whether she met with gales, Whether to isles enchanted She bent her docile sails;
By what mystic mooring She is held to-day,— This is the errand of the eye Out upon the bay.
# Poems (Dickinson)/Why?

III.
WHY?
The murmur of a bee A witchcraft yieldeth me. If any ask me why, 'T were easier to die Than tell.
The red upon the hill Taketh away my will; If anybody sneer, Take care, for God is here, That's all.
The breaking of the day Addeth to my degree; If any ask me how, Artist, who drew me so, Must tell!
# Poems (Donne)/Elegie III

This trancription from the 1633 printing of Poems duplicates the use of the long s as in the original. A modernized edition is availble at Elegy III (1896)
Although thy hand and faith, and good workes too, Have ſeal'd thy love which nothing ſhould undoe, Yea though thou fall backe, that apoſtaſie Confirme thy love; yet much, much I feare thee. Women, are like the Arts, forc'd unto none, Open to'all ſearchers, unpriz'd, if unknowne. If I have caught a bird, and let him flie, Another fouler uſing theſe meanes, as I, May catch the ſame bird; and, as theſe things bee, Women are made for men, not him, nor mee. Foxes and goats; all beaſts change when they pleaſe, Shall women, more hot, wily, wild then theſe, Be bound to one man, and did Naturre then Idly make them apter to'endure then men? They'are our clogges, not their owne; if a man bee Chain'd to a galley, yet the galley'is free; Who hath a plow-land, caſts all his feed come there, And yet allowes his ground more corne ſhould beare; Though Danuby into the ſea muſt flow, The ſea receives the Rhene, Volga, and Po. By nature, which gave it, this liberty Thou lov'ſt, but Oh! canſt thou love it and mee? Likenſſe glues love: and if that thou ſo doe, To make us like and love, muſt I change too? More then thy hate, I hate it, rather let mee Allow her change, then change as oft as shee, And ſoe not teach, but force my'opinion To love not any one, nor every one. To live in one land, is captivitie, To runne all countries, a wild roguery; Waters ſtincke ſoone, if in one place they bide, And in the vaſt ſea are more putrifi'd: But when they kiſſe one banke, and leaving this Never looke backe, but the next banke doe kiſſe, Then are they pureſt; Change'is the nurſery Of muſicke, joy, life, and eternity.
# Poems (Donne)/Elegie II

This elegy is a parody of Jacobean love poetry. Donne composes metaphors out of the traditional elements, however he arranges comparisons that would have been unappealing to his contemporaries. The effect is that the elegy uses the style of love poetry to seemingly offer praise, while actually meaning the opposite.
This trancription is of the 1633 printing of Poems and duplicates the use of the long s. A modernized edition is availble at Elegy II (1896).
Marry, and love thy Flavia, for, ſhee Hath all things, whereby others beautious bee, For, though her eyes be ſmall, her mouth is great, Though they be Ivory, yet her teeth be jeat, Though they be dimme, yet ſhe is light enough, And though her harſh haire fall, her skinne is rough; What though her cheeks be yellow, her haire's red, Give her thine, and ſhe hath a maydenhead. Theſe things are beauties elements, where theſe Meet in one, that one muſt, as perfect, pleaſe. If red and white and each good quality Be in thy wench, ne'r aske where it doth lye. In buying things perfum'd, we aske; if there Be muske and amber in it, but not where. Though all her parts be not in th'uſuall place, She'hath yet an Anagram of a good face. If we might put the letters but one way, In the leane dearth of words, what could wee ſay? When by the Gamut ſome Muſitions make A perfect ſong, others will undertake, By the ſame Gamut chang'd, to equall it. Things ſimply good, can never be unfit; She's faire as any, if all be like her, And if none bee, then ſhe is ſingular. All love is wonder; if wee juſtly doe Account her wonderfull, why not lovely too? Love built on beauty, ſoone as beauty, dies, Chuſe this face, chang'd by no deformities; Women are like Angels; the faire be Like thoſe which fell to worſe; but ſuch as ſhee, Like to good Angels, nothing can impaire: 'Tis leſſe griefe to be foule, then to'have beene faire. For one nights revels, ſilke and gold we chuſe, But, in long journeyes, cloth, and leather uſe. Beauty is barren oft; beſt huſbands ſay There is beſt land, where there is fouleſt way. Oh what a ſoveraigne Plaiſter will ſhee bee If thy paſt ſinnes have taught thee jealouſie! Here needs no ſpies, nor eunuches; her commit Safe to thy foes; yea, to a Marmoſit. When Belgiaes citties, the round countries drowne, That durty fouleneſſe guards, and armes the towne: So doth her face guard her; and ſo, for thee, Which, forc'd by buſineſſe, abſent oft muſt bee, Shee, whoſe face, like clouds, turnes the day to night, Who, mightier thē the ſea, makes Moores ſeem white, Who, though ſeaven yeares, ſhe in the Stews had laid, A Nunnery durſt receive, and thinke a maid, And though in childbeds labour ſhe did lie, Midwifes would ſweare, 'twere but a tympanie, Whom, if ſhee accuſe her ſelfe, I credit leſſe Then witches, which impoſſibles confeſſe. One like none, and lik'd of none, fitteſt were, For, things in faſhion every man will weare.
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 (Donne)/Elegie V

This trancription from the 1633 printing of Poems duplicates the use of the long s as in the original. A modernized edition is availble at Poems of John Donne/Volume 1/Elegy 5.
Here take my Picture, though I bid farewell; Thine, in my heart, where my ſoule dwels, ſhall dwell. 'Tis like me now, but I dead, 'twill be more When wee are ſhadowes both, then 'twas before. When weather-beaten I come backe; my hand, Perhaps with rude oares torne, or Sun beams tann'd, My face and breſt of hairecloth, and my head With cares raſh ſodaine ſtormes, being o'rſpread, My body'a ſack of bones, broken within, And powders blow ſtaines ſcatter'd on my skimme; If rivall fooles taxe thee to'have lov'd a man, So foule, and courſe, as, Oh, I may ſeeme than, This ſhall ſay what I was: and thou ſhalt ſay, Doe his hurts reach mee? doth my worth decay? Or doe they reach his judging minde, that hee Should now love leffe, what hee did love to ſee? That which in him was faire and delicate, Was but the milke, which in loves childiſh ſtate Did nurſe it: who now is growne ſtrong enough To feed on that, which to diſus'd tafts ſeemes tough.
# Political Essays (1819)/England in 1798, by S. T. Coleridge

ENGLAND in 1798. By S. T. Coleridge.
August 2, 1817.
"The Monthly Magazine tells us that this country has occasioned the death of 5,800,000 persons in Calabria, Russia, Poland, Germany, France, Spain, and Portugal. This country, reader, England! our country, our great, our glorious, our beloved country, according to this Magazine, has been the guilty ​cause of all this carnage!"—So says Mr. Southey apud the Quarterly Review, 1817. Thus sings Mr. Coleridge, in his "Fears in Solitude," 1798:—
   "We have offended, oh! my countrymen! We have offended very grievously, And been most tyrannous. ———Thankless too for peace; (Peace long preserv'd by fleets and perilous seas) Secure from actual warfare, we have lov'd To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war! Alas! for ages ignorant of all Its ghastlier workings (famine or blue plague, Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows), We, this whole people, have been clamorous For war and bloodshed; animating sports, The which we pay for as a thing to talk of, Spectators and not combatants! No guess Anticipative of a wrong unfelt, No speculation on contingency, However dim and vague, too vague and dim To yield a justifying cause; and forth (Stuff'd out with big preamble, holy names, And adjurations of the God in Heaven), We send our mandates for the certain death Of thousands and ten thousand! Boys and girls, And women, that would groan to see a child Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, The best amusement for our morning's meal! The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers For curses, who knows scarcely words enough To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute And technical in victories and defeat, And all our dainty terms for fratricide; Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues, Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which ​We join no feeling and attach no form! As if the soldier died without a wound; As if the fibres of this godlike frame Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, Pass'd off to heaven, translated, and not killed;— As though he had no wife to pine for him— No God to judge him! Therefore, evil days Are coming on us, O my countrymen! And what if all-avenging Providence, Strong and retributive, should make us know The meaning of our words; force us to feel The desolation and the agony Of our fierce doings! I have told, O Britons! O my brethren! I have told Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed: For never can true courage dwell with them, Who playing tricks with conscience, dare not look At their own vices. We have been too long Dupes of a deep delusion!—Others, meanwhile, Dote with a mad idolatry; and all Who will not fall before their images, And yield them worship, they are enemies Even of their country! Such have I been deem'd."— S. T. C.
# Poems (Eddy)/I'm Sitting Alone

Lynn, Mass., September 3, 1866 .
# Poems (Eddy)/Lines

Lynn, Mass., February 19, 1868.
# Poems (Eddy)/Lines, on Visiting Pine Grove Cemetery

Lynn, Mass., August 24, 1865.
# Poems (Eddy)/Flowers

Pleasant View, Concord, N. H., May 21, 1904.
# Poems (Eddy)/Invocation for 1868

Swampscott, Mass., January 1, 1868.
# Popular Science Monthly/Volume 44/December 1893/Obituary Notes

Layout 4
The death is announced of M. Daniel Colladon, of Geneva, one of the most eminent of the former generation of physicists, in the ninety-second year of his age. He was born at Geneva in 1802; became an engineer; studied physics and mathematics in Paris; returning to Geneva, performed in co-operation with Sturm, in 1827, his famous experiments on the propagation of sound in water. The two also studied together the resistance of materials and the compressibility of liquids. In 1829 he became Professor of Mechanics in the École Centrale des Arts et Manufactures in Paris; later, professor in the academy at Geneva. Near the beginning of his career he studied the properties of liquid veins, and executed the remarkable experiment of the transportation of luminous waves by a column of water, which is the basis of the curious luminous fountains. One of his most important discoveries was that of the use of compressed air as a medium for the transmission of energy a discovery which has found practical application of great value in apparatus for perforating tunnels. He was also an earnest student of meteorological phenomena, and made many observations on lightning and hail. Like most students of broad minds, he took much interest in the popularization of science.
Henry J. Philpott, a writer who had gained considerable distinction in the discussion of economical subjects, died of consumption in Niles, Cal., September 24th. He was a resident of Iowa; had been engaged in editorial work in that State; and had gone to California as a last resort for the possible benefit of his health. He was prominent in the organization of the Free-Trade movement in Iowa; was interested in the work of the Society for Political Education of this city; and published many bright and forcible papers on the subjects he held near at heart. He contributed to The Popular Science Monthly articles or letters on The Joint-Snake Idiocy (vol. xxx); Social Sustenance (vol. xxxi); Origin of the Rights of Property (vol. xxxv); Irrigation of Arid Lands, and A Novel Water-Cooler (vol. xxxvi); A Little Boy's Game with a Ball (vol. xxxvii); and Almond Culture in California (vol. xli).
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/In April

​IN APRIL
Again the woods are odorous, the lark Lifts on upsoaring wings the heaven gray That hung above the tree-tops, veiled and dark, Where branches bare disclosed the empty day.
After long rainy afternoons an hour Comes with its shafts of golden light and flings Them at the windows in a radiant shower, And rain drops beat the panes like timorous wings.
Then all is still. The stones are crooned to sleep By the soft sound of rain that slowly dies; And cradled in the branches, hidden deep In each bright bud, a slumbering silence lies.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Initiation

​INITIATION
Whosoever thou art! Out in the evening roam, Out from thy room thou know'st in every part, And far in the dim distance leave thy home, Whosoever thou art. Lift thine eyes which lingering see The shadows on the foot-worn threshold fall, Lift thine eyes slowly to the great dark tree That stands against heaven, solitary, tall, And thou hast visioned Life, its meanings rise Like words that in the silence clearer grow; As they unfold before thy will to know Gently withdraw thine eyes—
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Lament

​LAMENT
Oh! All things are long passed away and far. A light is shining but the distant star From which it still comes to me has been dead A thousand years . . . In the dim phantom boat That glided past some ghastly thing was said. A clock just struck within some house remote. Which house?—I long to still my beating heart. Beneath the sky's vast dome I long to pray . . . Of all the stars there must be far away A single star which still exists apart. And I believe that I should know the one Which has alone endured and which alone Like a white City that all space commands At the ray's end in the high heaven stands.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Love Song

​LOVE SONG
When my soul touches yours a great chord sings! How shall I tune it then to other things? O! That some spot in darkness could be found That does not vibrate whene'er your depth sound. But everything that touches you and me Welds us as played strings sound one melody. Where is the instrument whence the sounds flow? And whose the master-hand that holds the bow? O! Sweet song—
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Growing Blind

​GROWING BLIND
Among all the others there sat a guest Who sipped her tea as if one apart, And she held her cup not quite like the rest; Once she smiled so it pierced one's heart.
When the group of people arose at last And laughed and talked in a merry tone, As lingeringly through the rooms they passed I saw that she followed alone.
Tense and still like one who to sing must rise Before a throng on a festal night She lifted her head, and her bright glad eyes Were like pools which reflected light.
She followed on slowly after the last As though some object must be passed by, And yet as if were it once but passed She would no longer walk but fly.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Early Apollo

​NEW POEMS
​EARLY APOLLO
As when at times there breaks through branches bare A morning vibrant with the breath of spring, About this poet-head a splendour rare Transforms it almost to a mortal thing.
There is as yet no shadow in his glance, To cool his temples for the laurel's glow; But later o'er those marble brows, perchance, A rose-garden with bushes tall will grow,
And single petals one by one will fall O'er the still mouth and break its silent thrall, —The mouth that trembles with a dawning smile As though a song were rising there the while.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Kings in Legends

This is a translation of the first part of "Karl der Zwölfte von Schweden reitet in der Ukraine"
​KINGS IN LEGENDS
Kings in old legends seem Like mountains rising in the evening light. They blind all with their gleam, Their loins encircled are by girdles bright, Their robes are edged with bands Of precious stones—the rarest earth affords— With richly jeweled hands They hold their slender, shining, naked swords.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Death

​DEATH
Before us great Death stands Our fate held close within his quiet hands. When with proud joy we lift Life's red wine up To drink deep of the mystic shining cup And ecstasy through all our being leaps— Death bows his head and weeps.
# Poems of Rainer Maria Rilke (1918)/Evening

This poem is the first of a sequence entitled Vigilien, beginning: Die falben Felder schlafen schon,
​EVENING
The bleak fields are asleep. My heart alone wakes; The evening in the harbour Down his red sails takes.
Night, guardian of dreams, Now wanders through the land; The moon, a lily white, Blossoms within her hand.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Heedless o' my love

HEEDLESS O’ MY LOVE.
Oh! I vu’st know’d o’ my true love,  As the bright moon up above, Though her brightness wer my pleasure,  She wer heedless o’ my love. Tho’ ’twer all gaÿ to my eyes, Where her feäir feäce did arise, She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,  Than the high moon in the skies.
Oh! I vu’st heärd her a-zingèn,  As a sweet bird on a tree, Though her zingèn wer my pleasure,  ’Twer noo zong she zung to me. Though her sweet vaïce that wer nigh, Meäde my wild heart to beat high, She noo mwore thought upon my thoughts,  Than the birds would passers by.
Oh! I vu’st know’d her a-weepèn,  As a raïn-dimm’d mornèn sky, Though her teär-draps dimm’d her blushes,  They wer noo draps I could dry. Ev’ry bright tear that did roll, Wer a keen païn to my soul, But noo heärt’s pang she did then veel,  Wer vor my words to console.
But the wold times be a-vanish’d,  An’ my true love is my bride. ​An’ her kind heart have a-meäde her.  As an angel at my zide; I’ve her best smiles that mid plaÿ, I’ve her me’th when she is gaÿ, When her tear-draps be a-rollèn, I can now wipe em awaÿ.
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/I got two Vields

I GOT TWO VIELDS.
I got two vields, an’ I don’t ceäre What squire mid have a bigger sheäre. My little zummer-leäze do stratch All down the hangèn, to a patch O’ meäd between a hedge an’ rank Ov elems, an’ a river bank. Where yollow clotes, in spreadèn beds O’ floatèn leaves, do lift their heads By bendèn bulrushes an’ zedge A-swaÿèn at the water’s edge, Below the withy that do spread Athirt the brook his grey-leav’d head. An’ eltrot flowers, milky white, Do catch the slantèn evenèn light; An’ in the meäple boughs, along The hedge, do ring the blackbird’s zong; Or in the day, a-vleèn drough The leafy trees, the whoa’se gookoo Do zing to mowers that do zet Their zives on end, an’ stan’ to whet. From my wold house among the trees A leäne do goo along the leäze O’ yollow gravel, down between Two mossy banks vor ever green. An’ trees, a-hangèn overhead, Do hide a trinklèn gully-bed, A-cover’d by a bridge vor hoss Or man a-voot to come across. Zoo wi’ my hwomestead, I don’t ceäre What squire mid have a bigger sheäre!
# Poems of Rural Life in the Dorset Dialect/Haÿ-Meäken

For the poet’s note on haymaking in North Dorset, see the Glossary.
HAY-MEAKEN.
’Tis merry ov a zummer’s day, Where vo’k be out a-meäkèn haÿ; Where men an’ women, in a string, Do ted or turn the grass, an’ zing, Wi’ cheemèn vaïces, merry zongs, A-tossèn o’ their sheenèn prongs Wi’ eärms a-zwangèn left an’ right, In colour’d gowns an’ shirtsleeves white; Or, wider spread, a reakèn round The rwosy hedges o’ the ground, Where Sam do zee the speckled sneäke, An’ try to kill en wi’ his reäke; An’ Poll do jump about an’ squall, To zee the twistèn slooworm crawl.
’Tis merry where a gaÿ-tongued lot Ov haÿ-meäkers be all a-squot, On lightly-russlèn haÿ, a-spread Below an elem’s lofty head, To rest their weary limbs an’ munch Their bit o’ dinner, or their nunch; Where teethy reäkes do lie all round By picks a-stuck up into ground. An’ wi’ their vittles in their laps, An’ in their hornen cups their draps O’ cider sweet, or frothy eäle, Their tongues do run wi’ joke an’ teäle.
​An’ when the zun, so low an’ red, Do sheen above the leafy head O’ zome broad tree, a-rizèn high Avore the vi’ry western sky, ’Tis merry where all han’s do goo Athirt the groun’, by two an’ two, A-reäkèn, over humps an’ hollors, The russlèn grass up into rollers. An’ woone do row it into line, An’ woone do clwose it up behine; An’ after them the little bwoys Do stride an’ fling their eärms all woys, Wi’ busy picks, an’ proud young looks A-meäkèn up their tiny pooks. An’ zoo ’tis merry out among The vo’k in haÿ-vield all day long.