OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Sutherland's Grave

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 124–125
SUTHERLAND'S GRAVE
ALL night long the sea out yonder—all night long the wailful sea, Vext of winds and many thunders, seeketh rest unceasingly! Seeketh rest in dens of tempest, where, like one distraught with pain, Shouts the wild-eyed sprite, Confusion—seeketh rest, and moans in vain: Ah! but you should hear it calling, calling when the haggard sky Takes the darks and damps of Winter with the mournful marsh-fowl's cry; Even while the strong, swift torrents from the rainy ridges come Leaping down and breaking backwards—million-coloured shapes of foam! Then, and then, the sea out yonder chiefly looketh for the boon Portioned to the pleasant valleys and the grave sweet summer moon: Boon of Peace, the still, the saintly spirit of the dew-dells deep— Yellow dells and hollows haunted by the soft, dim dreams of sleep. ​All night long the flying water breaks upon the stubborn rocks— Ooze-filled forelands burnt and blackened, smit and scarred, with lightning shocks; But above the tender sea-thrift, but beyond the flowering fern, Runs a little pathway westward—pathway quaint with turn on turn— Westward trending, thus it leads to shelving shores and slopes of mist: Sleeping shores, and glassy bays of green and gold and amethyst! There tread gently—gently, pilgrim; there with thoughtful eyes look round; Cross thy breast and bless the silence: lo, the place is holy ground! Holy ground for ever, stranger! All the quiet silver lights Dropping from the starry heavens through the soft Australian nights— Dropping on those lone grave-grasses—come serene, unbroken, clear, Like the love of God the Father, falling, falling, year by year! Yea, and like a Voice supernal, there the daily wind doth blow In the leaves above the sailor buried ninety years ago.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Sydney Exhibition Cantata

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 354–356
SYDNEY EXHIBITION CANTATA
Part I
Chorus
Songs of morning, with your breath Sing the darkness now to death; Radiant river, beaming bay, Fair as Summer, shine to-day; Flying torrent, falling slope, Wear the face as bright as Hope; Wind and woodland, hill and sea, Lift your voices—sing for glee! Greet the guests your fame has won— Put your brightest garments on.
Recitative and Chorus
Lo, they come—the lords unknown, Sons of Peace, from every zone! See above our waves unfurled All the flags of all the world! North and south and west and east Gather in to grace our feast. Shining nations! let them see How like England we can be. Mighty nations! let them view Sons of generous sires in you.
Solo—Tenor
By the days that sound afar, Sound, and shine like star by star; By the grand old years aflame With the fires of England's fame— Heirs of those who fought for right When the world's wronged face was white— Meet these guests your fortune sends, As your fathers met their friends; Let the beauty of your race Glow like morning in your face.
Part ii
Solo—Bass
Where now a radiant city stands, The dark oak used to wave, The elfin harp of lonely lands Above the wild man's grave; Through windless woods, one clear, sweet stream (Sing soft and very low) Stole like the river of a dream A hundred years ago.
Solo—Alto
Upon the hills that blaze to-day With splendid dome and spire, The naked hunter tracked his prey, And slumbered by his fire. Within the sound of shipless seas The wild rose used to blow About the feet of royal trees, A hundred years ago.
Solo—Soprano
Ah! haply on some mossy slope, Against the shining springs, In those old days the angel Hope Sat down with folded wings; Perhaps she touched in dreams sublime, In glory and in glow, The skirts of this resplendent time, A hundred years ago.
Part iii
Children
A gracious morning on the hills of wet And wind and mist her glittering feet has set; The life and heat of light have chased away Australia's dark, mysterious yesterday. A great, glad glory now flows down and shines On gold-green lands where waved funereal pines.
Solo—Soprano
And hence a fair dream goes before our gaze, And lifts the skirts of the hereafter days, And sees afar, as dreams alone can see, The splendid marvel of the years to be.
Part iv
Basses and Chorus
Father, All-Bountiful, humbly we bend to Thee; Heads are uncovered in sight of Thy face. Here, in the flow of the psalms that ascend to Thee, Teach us to live for the light of Thy grace. Here, in the pause of the anthems of praise to Thee, Master and Maker—pre-eminent Friend— Teach us to look to Thee—give all our days to Thee, Now and for evermore, world without end!
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/September in Australia

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 70–72
SEPTEMBER IN AUSTRALIA
Grey Winter hath gone, like a wearisome guest, And, behold, for repayment, September comes in with the wind of the West And the Spring in her raiment! The ways of the frost have been filled of the flowers, While the forest discovers Wild wings, with the halo of hyaline hours, And the music of lovers.
September, the maid with the swift, silver feet! She glides, and she graces The valleys of coolness, the slopes of the heat, With her blossomy traces; Sweet month, with a mouth that is made of a rose, She lightens and lingers In spots where the harp of the evening glows, Attuned by her fingers.
The stream from its home in the hollow hill slips In a darling old fashion; And the day goeth down with a song on its lips, Whose key-note is passion. ​Far out in the fierce, bitter front of the sea I stand, and remember Dead things that were brothers and sisters of thee, Resplendent September!
The West, when it blows at the fall of the noon And beats on the beaches, Is filled with a tender and tremulous tune That touches and teaches; The stories of Youth, of the burden of Time, And the death of Devotion, Come back with the wind, and are themes of the rhyme In the waves of the ocean.
We, having a secret to others unknown, In the cool mountain-mosses, May whisper together, September, alone Of our loves and our losses! One word for her beauty, and one for the grace She gave to the hours; And then we may kiss her, and suffer her face To sleep with the flowers.
High places that knew of the gold and the white On the forehead of Morning Now darken and quake, and the steps of the Night Are heavy with warning. Her voice in the distance is lofty and loud Through the echoing gorges; She hath hidden her eyes in a mantle of cloud, And her feet in the surges.
On the tops of the hills, on the turreted cones— Chief temples of thunder— The gale, like a ghost, in the middle watch moans, Gliding over and under. The sea, flying white through the rack and the rain, Leapeth wild at the forelands; And the plover, whose ery is like passion with pain, Complains in the moorlands.
​Oh, season of changes—of shadow and shine— September the splendid! My song hath no music to mingle with thine, And its burden is ended; But thou, being born of the winds and the sun, By mountain, by river, Mayst lighten and listen, and loiter and run, With thy voices for ever!
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Sitting by the Fire (2)

(aka "Song")
Ah! the solace in the sitting,  Sitting by the fire, When the wind without is calling And the fourfold clouds are falling, With the rain-racks intermitting,  Over slope and spire. Ah! the solace in the sitting,  Sitting by the fire.
Then, and then, a man may ponder,  Sitting by the fire, Over fair far days, and faces Shining in sweet-coloured places Ere the thunder broke asunder  Life and dear Desire. Thus, and thus, a man may ponder,  Sitting by the fire.
Waifs of song pursue, perplex me,  Sitting by the fire: Just a note, and lo, the change then! Like a child, I turn and range then, Till a shadow starts to vex me –  Passion's wasted pyre. So do songs pursue, perplex me,  Sitting by the fire.
Night by night – the old, old story –  Sitting by the fire, Night by night, the dead leaves grieve me: Ah! the touch when youth shall leave me, Like my fathers, shrunken, hoary,  With the years that tire. Night by night – that old, old story,  Sitting by the fire.
Sing for slumber, sister Clara,  Sitting by the fire. I could hide my head and sleep now, Far from those who laugh and weep now, Like a trammelled, faint wayfarer,  'Neath yon mountain-spire. Sing for slumber, sister Clara,  Sitting by the fire.
This work is in the public domain in Australia because it was created in Australia and the term of copyright has expired. According to Australian Copyright Council - Duration of Copyright, the following works are public domain:
* published non-government works whose author died before January 1, 1955,
* anonymous or pseudonymous works and photographs published before January 1, 1955, and
* government works published more than 50 years ago (before January 1, 1974).
This work is also in the public domain in the United States because it was first published outside the United States (and not published in the U.S. within 30 days), and it was first published before 1989 without complying with U.S. copyright formalities (renewal and/or copyright notice) and it was in the public domain in Australia on the URAA date (January 1, 1996). This is the combined effect of Australia having joined the Berne Convention in 1928, and of 17 USC 104A with its critical date of January 1, 1996.
Because the Australian copyright term in 1996 was 50 years, the critical date for copyright in the United States under the URAA is January 1, 1946.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Song of the Shingle-Splitters

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 336–337
SONG OF THE SHINGLE-SPLITTERS
In dark wild woods, where the lone owl broods And the dingoes nightly yell— Where the curlew's cry goes floating by, We splitters of shingles dwell. And all day through, from the time of the dew To the hour when the mopoke calls, Our mallets ring where the woodbirds sing Sweet hymns by the waterfalls. And all night long we are lulled by the song Of gales in the grand old trees; And in the brakes we can hear the lakes And the moan of the distant seas. For afar from heat and dust of street, And hall and turret and dome, In forest deep, where the torrents leap, Is the shingle-splitter's home.
​The dweller in town may lie upon down, And own his palace and park: We envy him not his prosperous lot, Though we slumber on sheets of bark. Our food is rough, but we have enough; Our drink is better than wine: For cool creeks flow wherever we go, Shut in from the hot sunshine. Though rude our roof, it is weather-proof, And at the end of the days We sit and smoke over yarn and joke, By the bush-fire's sturdy blaze. For away from din and sorrow and sin, Where troubles but rarely come, We jog along, like a merry song, In the shingle-splitter's home.
What though our work be heavy, we shirk From nothing beneath the sun; And toil is sweet to those who can eat And rest when the day is done. In the Sabbath-time we hear no chime, No sound of the Sunday bells; But yet Heaven smiles on the forest aisles, And God in the woodland dwells. We listen to notes from the million throats Of chorister birds on high, Our psalm is the breeze in the lordly trees, And our dome is the broad blue sky. Oh! a brave, frank life, unsmitten by strife, We live wherever we roam, And our hearts are free as the great strong sea, In the shingle-splitter's home.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Stanzas

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., page 27
STANZAS
The sunsets fall and the sunsets fade, But still I walk this shadowy land; And grapple the dark and only the dark In my search for a loving hand.
For it's here a still, deep woodland lies, With spurs of pine and sheaves of fern; But I wander wild, and wail like a child For a face that will never return!
And it's here a mighty water flows, With drifts of wind and wimpled waves; But the darling head of a dear one dead Is hidden beneath its caves.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Prefatory Sonnets

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 67–68
PREFATORY SONNETS
I
I purposed once to take my pen and write, Not songs, like some, tormented and awry With passion, but a cunning harmony Of words and music caught from glen and height, And lucid colours born of woodland light And shining places where the sea-streams lie. But this was when the heat of youth glowed white, And since I've put the faded purpose by. I have no faultless fruits to offer you Who read this book; but certain syllables Herein are borrowed from unfooted dells And secret hollows dear to noontide dew; And these at least, though far between and few, May catch the sense like subtle forest spells.
II
So take these kindly, even though there be Some notes that unto other lyres belong, Stray echoes from the elder sons of song; And think how from its neighbouring native sea The pensive shell doth borrow melody. I would not do the lordly masters wrong By filching fair words from the shining throng Whose music haunts me as the wind a tree. Lo, when a stranger in soft Syrian glooms Shot through with sunset, treads the cedar dells, And hears the breezy ring of elfin bells Far down by where the white-haired cataract booms, He, faint with sweetness caught from forest smells, Bears thence, unwitting, plunder of perfumes.
# The Poems of Henry Kendall/Rose Lorraine

Sydney: Angus & Robertson Ltd., pages 147–148
ROSE LORRAINE
Sweet water-moons, blown into lights Of flying gold on pool and creek, And many sounds and many sights Of younger days are back this week. I cannot say I sought to face Or greatly cared to cross again The subtle spirit of the place Whose life is mixed with Rose Lorraine.
What though her voice rings clearly through A nightly dream I gladly keep, No wish have I to start anew Heart fountains that have ceased to leap. Here, face to face with different days, And later things that plead for love, It would be worse than wrong to raise A phantom far too fain to move.
But, Rose Lorraine—ah! Rose Lorraine, I'll whisper now, where no one hears— If you should chance to meet again The man you kissed in soft, dead years, Just say for once "He suffered much," And add to this "His fate was worst Because of me, my voice, my touch." There is no passion like the first!
If I that breathe your slow sweet name, As one breathes low notes on a flute, Have vext your peace with word of blame, The phrase is dead—the lips are mute. Yet when I turn towards the wall, In stormy nights, in times of rain, I often wish you could recall Your tender speeches, Rose Lorraine.
Because, you see, I thought them true, And did not count you self-deceived, And gave myself in all to you, And looked on Love as Life achieved. ​Then came the bitter, sudden change, The fastened lips, the dumb despair. The first few weeks were very strange, And long, and sad, and hard to bear.
No woman lives with power to burst My passion's bonds, and set me free; For Rose is last where Rose was first, And only Rose is fair to me. The faintest memory of her face, The wilful face that hurt me so, Is followed by a fiery trace That Rose Lorraine must never know.
I keep a faded ribbon string You used to wear about your throat; And of this pale, this perished thing, I think I know the threads by rote. God help such love! To touch your hand, To loiter where your feet might fall, You marvellous girl, my soul would stand The worst of hell—its fires and all!
# The Skeleton Key

* information about this edition.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
The late Bernard Capes was one of the few writers of mystery and detective stories who make an honorable effort to combine plot with literary workmanship. This posthumous tale is one of his best. It has a decidedly original dénouement which will puzzle even practical mystery solvers. —The Outlook, 5 May 1920
THE SKELETON KEY
WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR
* ADVENTURES OF THE COMTE DE LA MUETTE
* OUR LADY OF DARKNESS
* A CASTLE IN SPAIN
* DIANA PLEASE
* A JAY OF ITALY
* A ROGUE'S TRAGEDY
* THE POT OF BASIL
* MOLL DAVIS
* HISTORICAL VIGNETTES. 1st Series
* ,,,, 2nd,,
* THE MYSTERIOUS SINGER
* JOAN BROTHERHOOD
* LOVE LIKE A GIPSY
* THE SECRET IN THE HILL
* THE GREEN PARROT
* JEMMY ABERCRAW
* THE LOVE STORY OF ST. BEL
* THE STORY OF LOHENGRIN
* THE HOUSE OF MANY VOICES
* JESSIE BAZLEY
* THE STORY OF FIFINE
* IF AGE COULD
* WHERE ENGLAND SETS HER FEET
* THE GREAT SKENE MYSTERY
* WHY DID HE DO IT?
* THE WILL AND THE WAY
* GILEAD BALM
* THE SKELETON KEY
* FROM DOOR TO DOOR
* AT A WINTER'S FIRE
* PLOTS
* LOAVES AND FISHES
* BAG AND BAGGAGE
* THE FABULISTS
* POEMS
* A FOOL'S PASSION AND OTHER POEMS
* AMARANTHUS
THE
SKELETON KEY
BY BERNARD CAPES
LONDON AND GLASGOW COLLINS' CLEAR-TYPE PRESS
Copyright
First Impression, April 1919 Second May 1919 Reprinted, February 1921

### CONTENTS

* CHAP.PAGE
* INTRODUCTION vii
* I. MY FIRST MEETING WITH THE BARON 1
* II. MY SECOND MEETING WITH THE BARON 10
* III. WILDSHOTT 17
* IV. I AM INTERESTED IN THE BARON 28
* V. THE BARON CONTINUES TO INTEREST ME 38
* VI. THAT THUNDERS IN THE INDEX 47
* VII. THE BARON VISITS THE SCENE OF THE CRIME 64
* VIII. AN ENTR'ACTE 80
* IX. THE INQUEST 87
* X. AFTERWARDS 119
* XI. THE BARON DRIVES 127
* XII. THE BARON WALKS 140
* XIII. ACCUMULATING EVIDENCE 145
* XIV. THE EXPLOSION 155
* XV. THE FACE ON THE WALL 184
* XVI. THE BARON FINDS A CHAMPION 192
* XVII. AND AUDREY 207
* XVIII. THE BARON RETURNS 216
* XIX. THE DARK HORSE 225
* XX. THE BARON LAYS HIS CARDS ON THE TABLE 234
* XXI. A LAST WORD 22
Mrs Bernard Capes wishes to express her gratitude to Mr Chesterton for his appreciative introduction to her husband's last work, and to Mr A. K. Cook for his invaluable assistance in preparing it for the press.
    Winchester.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The Skeleton

Chattering finch and water-fly Are not merrier than I; Here among the flowers I lie Laughing everlastingly. No; I may not tell the best; Surely, friends, I might have guessed Death was but the good King's jest, It was hid so carefully.
# The Poetical Works of John Keats/Written after Visiting the Birthplace of Burns

WRITTEN AFTER VISITING THE BIRTHPLACE OF BURNS.
There is a charm in footing slow across a silent plain,
Where patriot battle had been fought, where glory had the gain;
There is a pleasure on the heath, where Druids old have been,
Where mantles gray have rustled by, and swept the nettled green;
There is a joy in every spot made known in times of old,
New to the feet altho' each tale a hundred times be told; There is a deeper joy than all, more solemn in the heart,
More parching to the tongue than all, of more divine a smart,
When weary steps forget themselves upon a pleasant turf,
Upon hot sand, or flinty road, or sea-shore iron surf,
Towards the castle or the cot, where long ago was born
One who was great through mortal days, and died of fame unshorn.   Light heather-bells may tremble then—but they are far away;
Wood-lark may sing from sandy fern,—the Sun may hear his lay;
Runnels may kiss the grass on shelves and shallows clear,— But their low voices are not heard, tho' come on travels drear; Blood-red the sun may set behind black mountain peaks, Blue tides may sluice and drench their time in caves and weedy creeks,
Eagles may seem to sleep wing-wide upon the air,
Ring-doves may fly convulsed across to some high cedared lair,— But the forgotten eye is still fast lidded to the ground,
As Palmer's that with weariness mid-desert shrine hath found.
A such a time the soul's a child, in childhood is the brain,
Forgotten is the worldly heart,—alone it beats in vain!
Ay, if a madman could have leave to pass a healthful day,
To tell his forehead's swoon and faint, when first began decay,
He might make tremble many a one, whose spirit had gone forth
To find a Bard's low cradle-place about the silent north!
Scanty the hour, and few the steps, beyond the bourn of care,
Beyond the sweet and bitter world,—beyond it unaware!
Scanty the hour, and few the steps,—because a longer stay
Would bar return and make a man forget his mortal way! O horrible! to lose the sight of well-remembered face,
Of Brother's eyes, of Sister's brow,—constant to every place,
Filling the air as on we move with portraiture intense,
More warm than those heroic tints that pain a painter's sense, When shapes of old come striding by, and visages of old, Locks shining black, hair scanty gray, and passions anifold!
No, no,—that horror cannot be! for at the cable's length
Man feels the gentle anchor pull, and gladdens in its strength:
One hour, half idiot, he stands by mossy waterfall.
But in the very next he reads his soul's memorial;
He reads it on the mountain's height, where chance he may sit down,
Upon rough marble diadem, that hill's eternal crown.
Yet be his anchor e'er so fast, room is there for a prayer,
That man may never lose his mind in mountains black and bare;
That he may stray, league after league, some great birthplace to find,
And keep his vision clear from speck, his inward sight unblind.
# The Poetical Works of John Keats/To ——

TO ———
What can I do to drive away Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen Ay, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen! Touch has a memory. O say, love, say, What can I do to kill it and be free In my own liberty? When every fair one that I saw was fair, Enough to catch me in but half a snare, Not keep me there: When, howe'er poor or particolor'd things, My muse had wings, And ever ready was to take her course Whither I bent her force, Unintellectual, yet divine to me;— Divine, I say!—What sea-bird o'er the sea Is a philosopher the while he goes Winging along where the great water throes? How shall I do To get anew Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more Above, above The reach of fluttering Love, ​And make him cower lowly while I soar? Shall I gulp wine? No, that is vulgarism, A heresy and schism, Foisted into the canon-law of love;— No,—wine is only sweet to happy men; More dismal cares Seize on me unawares,— Where shall I learn to get my peace again? To banish thoughts of that most hateful land, Dungeoner of my friends, that wicked strand Where they were wreck'd and live a wrecked life; That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour, Ever from their sordid urns unto the shore, Unown'd of any weedy-haired gods; Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods, Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind; Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind, Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbaged meads Make lean and lank the starv'd ox while he feeds; There bad flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song, And great unerring Nature once seems wrong.
O, for some sunny spell To dissipate the shadows of this hell! Say they are gone,—with the new dawning light Steps forth my lady bright! O, let me once more rest My soul upon that dazzling breast! Let once again these aching arms be placed, The tender jailers of thy waist! And let me feel that warm breath here and there To spread a rapture in my very hair,— ​O, the sweetness of the pain! Give me those lips again! Enough! Enough! it is enough for me To dream of thee!