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

AMERICA
THY children are inspired by thee: Blest by thy gift of liberty, They go to make the wretched free, Mother-land!
They were indeed not sons of thine Could they withhold that gift divine. Of liberty thou art the shrine, Mother-land!
Thy children glory in thy name; They write it, as with words of flame, In deeds that put thy foes to shame, Mother-land!
In deeds of daring unforecast, In deeds of valor unsurpassed, In deeds that make thee known at last, Mother-land!
​Thy strength it was that made them strong; Thy justice taught them hate of wrong; They are of thee, to thee belong, Mother-land!
Their lungs are filled with thy sweet breath; Thy voice they hear, and what it saith; They love thee, and they fear not death, Mother-land!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/An American at Lincoln

AN AMERICAN AT LINCOLN
THE vast cathedral-crown of the high hill, The long, low-vaulted nave, the transepts where The light is glory shed through windows rare In rainbow tintings: glory deep and still, Gift of a past forever present there!
Beyond the lantern, the carved Gothic Choir, And, as interpreting the hallowed place Athrob with harmonies, a boyish face— English, yet with the look of awed desire Which speaks America,—the younger race.
In the half-parted lips without a smile, In the whole rapt, impassioned gaze, I read the travail of the distant days, The wistful hunger of the Long Exile— The yearning that survives through all delays
I read thy soul, my Country! thou dear Land Across the deep and all-dividing sea! I read thy soul and theirs who founded thee ​With sacrifices few could understand— Renouncing and enduring silently.
And I perceived that thou hast still retained Their strength to toil, their courage to resist: That seeking ardently whate'er they missed, Thou hast remained—in spite of all, remained— That which they made thee—an idealist!
And once again I felt how blest it is To hunger and to thirst: anew I saw That by eternal high-appointed law, Sublimity and beauty most are his In whom they move the deepest thrill of awe!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/A Seeker in the Night

A SEEKER IN THE NIGHT
I LIFT my eyes, but I cannot see; I stretch my arms and I cry to Thee,— And still the darkness covers me.
Where art Thou? In the chill obscure I wander lonely, and endure A yearning only Thou canst cure!
Once—once, indeed, in every face I seemed thy lineaments to trace And looked in all to find thy grace:
I thought the thrush—sweet worshiper!— From the minaret of the balsam-fir Hymned forth thy praise, my soul to stir;
I thought the early roses came To lisp in fragrant breaths thy name, And teach my heart to do the same;
I thought the stars thy candles, Lord!— I thought the skylark as he soared Rose to thy throne and Thee adored!
​But now a labyrinth I wind, And needing more thy hand to find, Grope, darkling, Lord!—for I am blind!
Ah, bridge for me the awful vast, That I may find Thee at the last!— Then draw me close, and hold me fast!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Alexander III

ALEXANDER III
(LIVADIA, NOVEMBER 1, 1894)
THE world in mourning for a Russian Tsar! A despot of the nineteenth century Mourned by the nations that have made men free! Ye captives of his rule! where'er ye be, Whether in dungeons or in mines afar— Wretches who mourn, yet mourn not for the Tsar,— Forgive the tears that seem a wrong to grief Barren of comfort and without relief; The Tsar was Russia's martyr—as ye are!
He asked for peace, and she ordained him strife. A Slav of simple heart, disliking show, She bade him every lowly hope forego; And placing on his brow her crown of woe, Gave him a sovereignty with perils rife, And 'neath his sceptre hid the assassin's knife. So, masked as Fear, she broke his nerves of steel Upon the circle of her racking wheel, And set a horror at his door of life! ​Humanity but sorrows for her own; The Autocrat she mourns not, but the man, Who, loving Russia, lived beneath her ban, Powerless to soften fate or change the plan That called him all unwilling to a throne, Hereditary evils to atone. She mourns not Cæsar, but the pathos old Of a quick conscience driven to uphold A dynasty the world had long outgrown.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/At Dusk

AT DUSK
EARTH, mother dear, I turn at last, A homesick child, to thee! The twilight glow is fading fast, And soon I shall be free To seek the dwelling, dim and vast, Where thou awaitest me.
I am so weary, mother dear! Thy child, of dual race, Who gazing past the star-beams clear, Sought the Undying's face! Now I but ask to know thee near, To feel thy large embrace!
Tranquil to lie against thy breast— Deep source of noiseless springs, Where hearts are healed, and wounds are dressed, And naught or sobs or sings: Against thy breast to lie at rest— A life that folds its wings.
​Sometime I may—for who can tell?— Awake, no longer tired, And see the fields of asphodel, The dreamed-of, the desired, And find the heights where He doth dwell, To whom my heart aspired!
And then— But peace awaiteth me— Thy peace: I feel it near; The hush, the voiceless mystery, The languor without fear! Enfold me—close; I want but thee! But thee, Earth-mother dear!
# Palestine Exploration Fund - Quarterly Statement for 1894/The Jews under Rome

THE JEWS UNDER ROME.
By Major C. R. Conder, R.E., D.C.L., &c.
In a former number of the Quarterly Statement (October, 1890) I gave some account of the foreign influences on Jews in Palestine after the Christian era. It is here proposed to give some account of Jewish life in the first and second centuries a.d., under Roman rule in Syria, which—in spite of the terrible episodes of the sieges of Jerusalem in 70 A.D. and 132 A.D.—was for the greater part of the period a peaceful domination over a very mixed population at a time when the Jews were very prosperous and fairly contented.
The most authentic sources of information are the inscriptions of the age—Greek, Roman, and Aramaic—and the scattered notes which occur ​in the most unexpected places in the Mishnah or "Second Law," completed before 200 A.D. at Tiberias, and written in the later Hebrew. The Mishnah is the Rabbinical comment on the Law, a work divided into six orders (Seeds, Feasts, Women, Damages, Holy Things, and Purifications), including 63 tracts in all. The well-known edition of Surenhusius including the comments of Maimonides, Bartenora, and others, occupies three stout folios, and gives the Hebrew text unpointed. The great lexicon of Buxtorff is indispensable for its study. The work, as a whole, is a dry digest of the decisions of famous Rabbis on cases connected with the subjects above-named, but the incidental notices include most valuable accounts of Jewish customs during the time when Herod's Temple was still standing, taken from the remembrances of the earlier Rabbis who survived its fall, and also notices of Jewish practices, occupations, and manners during the times when the Sanhedrin sat at Jamnia, and finally at Tiberias. To these subjects—sometimes illustrated by the evidence of existing buildings, inscriptions, coins, and also by modern customs, it is proposed to draw attention under the various headings which follow.
# Palestine Exploration Fund - Quarterly Statement for 1894/The City Sehlala

THE CITY SEHLALA.
By Major Conder, R.E., D.C.L., &c.
The only city noticed in connection with the wars of Aziru against Geba in the Tell Amarna tablets which I could not discover in the vicinity was Sehlala, but on further search I find a village in one of the valleys east of Batrun (the Batruna of the tablets) called Beit Shelalah, which is probably the place in question. The letter in which it is noticed is much broken, but the central part runs as follows (158b):—
û . . . . s'arrabunum ina amati . . . . rinum û caru rabu . . . . zabi Ali Sehlali û anuma invirir . . . . istu alu Irpada û . . . . nacu ina Ali Tsumura û yanu amili sa asbunum ina cari rabi si û anumma amili sa asbumum ina cari rabi si Sabilu Bilimtanu Maya . . . . Arzaya anumma IV amili sa asbunum ina cari rabi si û icbunum sunu ana yasi lizipanna simi istu suti zabi Ali Sehlali û huse izzina istu suti zabi Ali Sehlali . . . . xxv sa iducunum . . . . Sehlali û inuma babi . . . . ici zabi . . . . unuti . . . . istu Ali Tsumuri . . . . anumma la adru uddu . . . . zazibunum . . . . Khazanuti ana panica . . . .
The translation, though rendered difficult by the breaks in the text, appears to be—
"And . . . . they had rebelled from the orders . . . they had . . . . and the fortress . . . . the soldiers of the City of Sehlala, and now it ​was aided by the City of Arpad, and. . . . from the City of Semyra, but not by the men who dwelt in her fortress, and these are the chiefs who had lived in her fortress, Sabilu, Bilimtanu, Maya. . . . Arzaya. These are the four chiefs who dwelt in her fortress, and they had said to me, May we hide from destruction by the hands of the soldiers of the City of Sehlala, and help to take us away from the hands of the soldiers of the City of Sehlala,. . . . twenty-four whom they will slay. . . . Sehlala, and lo to the gate have come soldiers. . . . the possessions. . . . from the City of Semyra. . . . Now I did not repel. . . . they were hidden (being) rulers from your presence". . . .
The town would seem at this time to have been in the hands of the league hostile to Egypt. Arpad was a city near Tunip, which latter was ruled by Aziru the Amorite rebel. The letter would have been written after the fall of Semyra, and of the various towns to the south which were near Sehlala.
# Poems (EBBrowning-1844)/Volume 1/The Conclusion

CONCLUSION.
Bertram finished the last pages, while along the silence ever
Still in hot and heavy splashes, fell his tears on every leaf:
Having ended, he leans backward in his chair, with lips that quiver
From the deep unspoken, ay, and deep unwritten thoughts of grief.
Soh! how still the lady standeth! 'tis a dream—a dream of mercies! 'Twixt the purple lattice-curtains, how she standeth still and pale! 'Tis a vision, sure, of mercies, sent to soften his self-curses— Sent to sweep a patient quiet, o'er the tossing of his wail.
"Eyes," he said, "now throbbing through me! are ye eyes that did undo me? Shining eyes, like antique jewels set in Parian statue-stone! Underneath that calm white forehead, are ye ever burning torrid, O'er the desolate sand-desert of my heart and life undone?"
With a murmurous stir, uncertain, in the air, the purple curtain Swelleth in and swelleth out around her motionless pale brows;
While the gliding of the river sends a rippling noise for ever, Through the open casement whitened by the moonlight's slant repose.
Said he—"Vision of a lady! stand there silent, stand there steady! Now I see it plainly, plainly; now I cannot hope or doubt— There, the cheeks of calm expression—there, the lips of silent passion, Curved like an archer's bow, to send the bitter arrows out."
Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling,— And approached him slowly, slowly, in a gliding measured pace; With her two white hands extended, as if praying one offended, And a look of supplication, gazing earnest in his face.
Said he—"Wake me by no gesture,—sound of breath, or stir of vesture; Let the blessed apparition melt not yet to its divine! No approaching—hush! no breathing! or my heart must swoon to death in The too utter life thou bringest—O thou dream of Geraldine!"
Ever, evermore the while in a slow silence she kept smiling— But the tears ran over lightly from her eyes, and tenderly; "Dost thou, Bertram, truly love me? Is no woman far above me. Found more worthy of thy poet-heart, than such a one as I?"
Said he—"I would dream so ever, like the flowing of that river. Flowing ever in a shadow, greenly onward to the sea; So, thou vision of all sweetness—princely to a full completeness,— Would my heart and life flow onward—deathward—through this dream of thee!"
Ever, evermore the while in. a slow silence she kept smiling,— While the shining tears ran faster down the blushing of her cheeks; Then with both her hands enfolding both of his, she softly told him, "Bertram, if I say I love thee,. . . 'tis the vision only speaks."
Softened, quickened to adore her, on his knee he fell before her — And she whispered low in triumph—"It shall be as I have sworn! Very rich he is in virtues,—very noble—noble, certes; And I shall not blush in knowing, that men call him lowly born!"
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON: BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
# Poems (Eaton)

POEMS.
BY
Mrs. MARCIA JANE EATON
Printed, not Published.
BALTIMORE:
STEAM PRESS OF WM. K . BOYLE & SON.
1876.
CONTENTS.
COMPILER'S PREFACE.
THIS little volume of Poems is printed by consent of the Authoress, first solicited and obtained, for distribution amongst her numerous friends and relatives, as also those of the Compiler; to all of whom it may literally be said, to be DEDICATED, and by whom it is confidently believed it will be received and read with high gratification, and preserved with religious care.
As Mrs. Eaton is quite as well known to most of the recipients of this book as to the writer, any explanation of the circumstances under which the poems were produced, the animus prompting, or intent in writing, is deemed superfluous; in fact, each poem tells its own story, and, together, they clearly evince the high character and noble inner life of the Authoress.
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 (Dickinson)/I taste a liquor never brewed

XX.
I TASTE a liquor never brewed, From tankards scooped in pearl; Not all the vats upon the Rhine Yield such an alcohol!
Inebriate of air am I, And debauchee of dew, Reeling, through endless summer days, From inns of molten blue.
When landlords turn the drunken bee Out of the foxglove's door, When butterflies renounce their drams, I shall but drink the more!
Till seraphs swing their snowy hats, And saints to windows run, To see the little tippler Leaning against the sun!
# Poems (Dickinson)/If I can stop one heart from breaking

VI.
If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin Unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain.
# Poems (Dickinson)/I had no time to hate, because

XXII.
I had no time to hate, because The grave would hinder me, And life was not so ample I Could finish enmity.
Nor had I time to love; but since Some industry must be, The little toil of love, I thought, Was large enough for me.
# Poems (Dickinson)/I never saw a moor

XVII.
I never saw a moor, I never saw the sea; Yet know I how the heather looks, And what a wave must be.
I never spoke with God, Nor visited in heaven; Yet certain am I of the spot As if the chart were given.
# Poems (Dickinson)/If I shouldn't be alive

XXXVII.
If I should n't be alive When the robins come, Give the one in red cravat A memorial crumb.
If I could n't thank you, Being just asleep, You will know I'm trying With my granite lip!
# Poems (Dickinson)/I died for beauty, but was scarce

X.
I died for beauty, but was scarce Adjusted in the tomb, When one who died for truth was lain In an adjoining room.
He questioned softly why I failed? "For beauty," I replied. "And I for truth,—the two are one; We brethren are," he said.
And so, as kinsmen met a night, We talked between the rooms, Until the moss had reached our lips, And covered up our names.
# Poems (Dickinson)/I went to thank her

XIV.
I went to thank her, But she slept; Her bed a funnelled stone, With nosegays at the head and foot, That travellers had thrown,
Who went to thank her; But she slept. 'T was short to cross the sea To look upon her like, alive, But turning back 't was slow.
# Poems (Dickinson)/I never lost as much but twice

XL.
I never lost as much but twice, And that was in the sod; Twice have I stood a beggar Before the door of God!
Angels, twice descending, Reimbursed my store. Burglar, banker, father, I am poor once more!
# Poems (Dickinson)/I reason, earth is short

XXIII.
I reason, earth is short, And anguish absolute, And many hurt; But what of that?
I reason, we could die: The best vitality
Cannot excel decay; But what of that?
I reason that in heaven Somehow, it will be even, Some new equation given; But what of that?
# Poems (Dickinson)/I shall know why when time is over

XXXIX.
I shall know why, when time is over, And I have ceased to wonder why; Christ will explain each separate anguish In the fair schoolroom of the sky.
He will tell me what Peter promised, And I, for wonder at his woe, I shall forget the drop of anguish That scalds me now, that scalds me now.
# Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act/Title I/Subtitle E
## Subtitle E--Affordable Coverage Choices for All Americans
### PART I--PREMIUM TAX CREDITS AND COST-SHARING REDUCTIONS

       Subpart A--Premium Tax Credits and Cost-sharing Reductions
       Subpart B--Eligibility Determinations
# Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act/Title I/Subtitle F
## Subtitle F--Shared Responsibility for Health Care

       PART I--INDIVIDUAL RESPONSIBILITY
       PART II--EMPLOYER RESPONSIBILITIES
# Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act/Title I/Subtitle E/Part I
## PART I—PREMIUM TAX CREDITS AND COST-SHARING REDUCTIONS

       Subpart A--Premium Tax Credits and Cost-sharing Reductions
       Subpart B--Eligibility Determinations
# Poems (Eliza Gabriella Lewis)/Can the voice die

MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
# Poems (Eliot, 1926)/The Hollow Men

THE HOLLOW MEN
1925
# Poems (Eliza Gabriella Lewis)

POEMS:
by
ELIZA GABRIELLA LEWIS.
Εγῶ άγαποὓσα χαλὴ τερον.
Brooklyn:
PRINTED BY SHANNON & CO.,
98 Cranberry street.
1850.
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 (Van Vorst)/The Inspiration

ROUNDELS
# Peter Piper

"Peter Piper" is an English-language nursery rhyme and well-known alliteration tongue-twister. It has a Roud Folk Song Index number of 19745.
* "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled pepper" in A Book of Nursery Songs and Rhymes by Sabine Baring-Gould (1895)
* "Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers" in A Book of Nursery Rhymes by Charles Welsh (1901)
# Peter Pan In Kensington Gardens

* related authors: Arthur Rackham.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons gallery, Commons category, Wikidata item.
Expanded from The Little White Bird, a serialized fiction first published in Scribner's Magazine, Volume XXXII
The·Little·White·Bird
Illustrated·by
LONDON HODDER·&·STOUGHTON
TO SYLVIA AND ARTHUR LLEWELYN DAVIES
AND THEIR BOYS (MY BOYS)
CONTENTS
David
COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS
ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE TEXT
KENSINGTON GARDENS
The lady with the balloons, who sits just outside . . . Page 2
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 1937, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 86 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
# Personal Notes

PERSONAL NOTES
I have outgrown the habit of reading. I no longer read anything except occasional newspapers, light literature and books technical to any matter I may be studying and in which simple reasoning may be insufficient.
The definite type of literature I have almost dropped. I could read it for learning or for pleasure. But I have nothing to learn and the pleasure to be drawn from books is of a type that can with profit be substituted by that which the contact with nature and the observation of life can directly give me.
I am now in possession of the fundamental laws of literary art. Shakespeare can no longer teach me to be subtle, nor Milton to be complete. My intellect has attained a pliancy and a reach that enable me to assume any emotion I desire and enter at will into any state of mind. For that which it is ever an effort and an anguish to strive for, completeness, no book at all can be an aid.
This does not mean that I have shaken off the tyranny of the literary art. I have but assumed it only under submission to myself.
I have one book ever by me -- Pickwick Papers. I have read Mr. W.W. Jacobs' books several times over. The decay of the detective story has closed for ever one door I had into modern writing.
I have ceased to be interested in merely clever people -- Wells, Chesterton, Shaw. The ideas these people have are such as occur to many non-writers; the construction of their works is wholly a negative quantity.
There was a time when I read only for the use of reading. I now have understood that there are very few useful books, even in such technical matters as I can be interested in.
Sociology is wholesale muddle; who can stand this Scholasticism in the Byzantium of today?
All my books are books of reference. I read Shakespeare only in relation to the "Shakespeare Problem". The rest rest I know already.
I have found out that reading is a slavish sort of dreaming. If I must dream, why not my own dreams?
# Poems (Tree)/Lamp-posts

​LAMPLIGHT AND STARLIGHT
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Bereft

BEREFT
DEATH took away from me my heart's desire,— Full suddenly, without a word of warning; Froze with benumbing touch her body's fire, And darkened her young morning.
Death hid her then where she is safe, men say,— Imprisoned in a deep-digged grave and hollow, Where grief and pain may never find a way, Nor any torment follow.
Safe!—and because of fear, they deem 't was best For her, perchance,—this thing which they call dying, But cold she could not be against my breast As there where she is lying!
Sometimes I dream, with sudden, wild delight, That she escapes the cruel bonds that bind her, And fond I seek through all the throbbing night, But never, never find her!
​Sometimes—But have the dead then no regrets?— Ah, me! I think, though she hath so bereft me, My loved one cannot be where she forgets How lonely she hath left me!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Base-Born

BASE-BORN
MY parents had great joy, I wis, Of their young days of love. In thought they were as deathless gods, Mere human laws above: As deathless gods! But I?—alas! Of joy what can I tell? Who am but as a broken vase Beside a brimming well.
My parents in each other's eyes Beheld the heavenly stars, And found in one another's arms The bliss that heaven unbars: They vowed when pleasure filled the cup None should resist its spell: They quaffed,—and emptied me of joy, Beside life's brimming well!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/Beethoven

BEETHOVEN
HE cursed the day that he was born: And deaf and desolate, Resolved, in bitterness forlorn, To end his hapless fate.
But as the deeper silence grew,— An exile from the throng, His yearning spirit voices drew From inner founts of song;
And he who called unfriendly death To calm rebellious strife, Won from his own despair the breath Of an immortal life.