OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Garden of Years and Other Poems/At Twilight

This poem was published in the posthumous anthology The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1904).
Was it so long? It seems so brief a while  Since this still hour between the day and dark Was ligntened by a little fellow’s smile;  Since we were wont to mark The sunset’s crimson dim to gold, to gray,  Content to know that, though he loved to roam Care-free among the comrades of his play,  Twilight would lead him home.
A year ago! The well-remembered hail  Of happy-hearted children on the green We hear to-night, and see the sunset pale,  The distant hills between: But when the busy feet shall homeward turn,  When little wearied heads shall seek for rest, Where shall you find the weight for which you yearn,  Ah, tender mother-breast?
Dear lips, that in the twilight hushed and dim  Lulled him with murmured fantasies of song; Dear slender arms, that safely sheltered him,  The empty years are long! The night’s caressing wind moves babbling on,  And all the whispered gossip of the firs Is busy with his name who now is gone—  My little lad and hers!
But if we so, with eager eyes and glad,  Looked forward to his coming in the gloom; If so our hearts leaped out to meet the lad  Whose smile lit all the room,— Shall there not be a Presence waiting thus  To still the bitter craving of the quest? Shall there not be a welcome, too, for us  When we go home to rest?
Yes, God be thanked for this: the ashen-gowned  Sweet presence of the twilight, and, afar, The strong, enduring hills, in beauty crowned  With one white, steadfast star! A year ago? What, love, to us are years?  The selfsame twilight, cool, and calm, and dim, That led him home to us, despite our fears,  Shall lead us home to him!
New York, 1898.
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 Garden of Years and Other Poems

This volume, published posthumously in 1904, is a collection of poems by Guy Wetmore Carryl. The poems were written between 1893 and 1902. This anthology features an introductory poem by Carolyn Wells and an introduction by Edmund Clarence Stedman.
THE GARDEN OF YEARS AND OTHER POEMS
GUY WETMORE CARRYL
“’T was in the garden, phantom-trod, of those My younger years, when life before me lay, That first I saw the flower of Love unclose From fancy's folded bud.”
“The Garden of Years,” Stanza XII.
Drawn by Maxfield Parrish for “The Garden of Years.” With the courteous consent of Messrs. P. F. Collier & Son.
The Garden of Years
And Other Poems
By Guy Wetmore Carryl
G. P. Putnam’s Sons New York and London The Knickerbocker Press 1904
Copyright, 1904 by G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
Published, November, 1904
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
GUY WETMORE CARRYL
DIED APRIL 1, 1904
Yes, the gods loved him. In his one brief hour They gave him all fair gifts within their power. Yet oh, the pity of it! Would that they Had paused ere they bestowed their final dower.
Carolyn Wells
Contents
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Atlantis

This poem was published in the posthumous anthology The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1904).
The light of suns unseen, through depths of sea descending,  Within her street awakes the ghost of noon To bide its little hour and die unheeded, blending  Into her night that knows nor stars nor moon. The hurrying feet of storms that trample o’er the surges  Arouse no echo in these silent deeps; No thunder thrills her peace, no sword of lightning scourges  The dim, dead calm where lost Atlantis sleeps.
Long leagues above her courts the stately days advancing  Kindle new dawns and see new sunsets dim; And, white and weary-eyed, the old stars, backward glancing,  Reluctant pause upon the ocean’s rim. But she, of dawns and dusks forgotten and forgetful,  Broods in her depths with slumber-weighted eyes; For all her splendid past unanxious, unregretful,  She waits the call that bids her wake and rise.
No mortal voice she hears. The strong young ships, full-freighted,  With hopes of men, with women’s sighs and tears, Above her blue-black walls and portals golden-gated  Sweep on unnoted through the speeding years— Until at last they come, as still in silence resting  She keeps her vigil underneath the waves, By tempests tossed and torn, and weary of their questing,  Slow sliding downward past her to their graves.
So side by side they lie in ever gaining number,  The sunken ships, by fate or fortune led To this, their final port, resistless sent to slumber  Until the sea shall render up her dead— Shall render up her dead to all their olden glories,  Shall render up what now so well she keeps, The buried lives and loves, the strange, unfinished stories  Of these dim depths where lost Atlantis sleeps!
Paris, 1899.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Garden of Years and Other Poems/A Fragment

This poem was published in the posthumous anthology The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1904).
When she is forward, querulous, or wild,  Thou knowest, Abba, how in each offence I stint not patience lest I wrong the child,  Mistaking for revolt defect of sense— For wilfulness mere sprightliness of mind; Thou knowest how often, seeing, I am blind.
And how, when twice, for something grievous done,  I could but smite, and though I lightly smote,  I felt my heart rise strangling in my throat;  And when she wept I kissed the poor red hands.  All these things, Father, a father understands; And am I not Thy son?
Thou’st seen how closely, Abba, when at rest My child’s head nestles to my breast;  And how my arm her little form enfolds, Lest in the darkness she should feel alone;  And how she holds My hands, my hands, my two hands in her own!
 A little easeful sighing  And restful turning round,  And I, too, on Thy love relying,  Shall slumber sound.
New York, 1893.
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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# The Garden of Years and Other Poems/Ad Finem Fideles

Ad Finem Fideles (Latin) means Faithful to the End. This poem is a tribute to the men who fought and died honorably on both sides during the American Civil War. This poem was published in the posthumous anthology The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1904).
Far out, far out they lie. Like stricken women weeping, Eternal vigil keeping with slow and silent tread— Soft-shod as are the fairies, the winds patrol the prairies, The sentinels of God about the pale and patient dead! Above them, as they slumber in graves that none may number. Dawns grow to day, days dim to dusk, and dusks in darkness pass; Unheeded springs are born, unheeded summers brighten, And winters wake to whiten the wilderness of grass.
Slow stride appointed years across their bivouac places, With stern, devoted faces they lie, as when they lay, In long battalions dreaming, till dawn, to eastward gleaming, Awoke the clarion greeting of the bugles to the day. The still and stealthy speeding of the pilgrim days unheeding, At rest upon the roadway that their feet unfaltering trod, The faithful unto death abide, with trust unshaken, The morn when they shall waken to the reveille of God.
The faithful unto death! Their sleeping-places over The torn and trampled clover to braver beauty blows; Of all their grim campaigning no sight or sound remaining, The memory of them mutely to greater glory grows. Through waning ages winding, new inspiration finding, Their creed of consecration like a silver ribbon runs, Sole relic of the strife that woke the world to wonder With riot and the thunder of a sundered people’s guns.
What matters now the cause? As little children resting, No more the battle breasting to the rumble of the drums, Enlinked by duty’s tether, the blue and gray together, They wait the great hereafter when the last assembly comes. Where’er the summons found them, whate’er the tie that bound them, ’T is this alone the record of the sleeping army saith:— They knew no creed but this, in duty not to falter, With strength that naught could alter to be faithful unto death.
New York, 1898.
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 English Hymnal

The English Hymnal is a hymn book which was published in 1906 for the Church of England by Oxford University Press. It was edited by the clergyman and writer Percy Dearmer and the composer and music historian Ralph Vaughan Williams, and was a significant publication in the history of Anglican church music. Warning: template has been deprecated.
* The English Hymnal, lyrics-only edition (1906) (transcription project)
* The English Hymnal with Tunes (1906) (transcription project)
# The English Hymnal (1906)

THE ENGLISH HYMNAL
OXFORD PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS LONDON: HENRY FROWDE AMEN CORNER 1906
OXFORD: HORACE HART PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
* Preface
* Contents

## Part 1: The Christian Year

* Creator of the stars of night
* High Word of God, who once didst come
* Behold the Bridegroom cometh in the middle of the night
* Great God, what do I see and hear!
* Hark! A herald voice is calling
* Hark the glad sound! The Saviour comes
* Lo! He comes with clouds descending
* O come, O come, Emmanuel!
* On Jordan's bank the Baptist's cry
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
# The English Mail-Coach

* The Glory of Motion
* The Vision of Sudden Death
* Dream Fugue
* Postscript
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 English Hymnal (1906)/O come, O come, Emmanuel!

Veni, Veni, Emmanuel.
O COME, O come, Emmanuel! Redeem thy captive Israel, That into exile drear is gone Far from the face of God's dear Son. Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Shall come to thee, O Israel.
2O come, thou Branch of Jesse! draw The quarry from the lion's claw; From the dread caverns of the grave, From nether hell, thy people save.
3O come, O come, thou Dayspring bright! Pour on our souls thy healing light; Dispel the long night's lingering gloom, And pierce the shadows of the tomb.
4O come, thou Lord of David's Key! The royal door fling wide and free; Safeguard for us the heavenward road, And bar the way to death's abode.
5.O come, O come, Adonäi, Who in thy glorious majesty From that high mountain clothed with awe Gavest thy folk the elder law.
# The English Martyrs

* The English Martyrs, in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine Volume 32, 1832.
* The English Martyrs, in Scenes and Hymns of Life, with Other Religious Poems (Scenes and Hymns of Life), 1834.
# The Highland Plaid (4)/The Highland Plaid

THE HIGHLAND PLAID.
# The Highland Plaid (4)/Logan Braes

LOGAN BRAES.
# The Highwayman

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Highwayman."
* sister projects: Commons category, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* The Highwayman, a novel by H. C. Bailey
* The Highwayman, a short story by G. A. Birmingham
* The Highwayman, a short story by Lord Dunsany
* The Highwayman, a poem by Alfred Noyes
# The English and Scottish Popular Ballads/Part 8/Chapter 250

One of two ballads based upon the legendary Scottish admiral Andrew Barton, both this text and Andrew Bartin, no. 167 date back to the 17th century. In the twentieth century, this ballad has been sung by artists including Joan Baez, Moist, Figgy Duff and Burl Ives.
There were three brothers in merry Scotland, In merry Scotland there were three, And they did cast lots which of them should go, should go, should go, And turn robber all on the salt sea.
The lot it fell first upon Henry Martyn, The youngest of all three; That he should turn robber all on the salt sea, Salt sea, salt sea. For to maintain his two brothers and he.
He had not been sailing but a long winter's night And a part of a short winter's day, Before he espied a stout lofty ship, lofty ship, lofty ship, Come abibing down on him straight way.
Hullo! Hullo! cried Henry Martyn, What makes you sail so nigh? I'm a rich merchant bound for fair London town, London Town, London Town Will you please for to let me pass by?
Oh no! Oh no! cried Henry Martyn, That thing it never could be, For I am turned robber all on the salt sea Salt sea, salt sea. For to maintain my brothers and me.
Come lower your topsail and brail up your mizz'n And bring your ship under my lee, Or I will give you a full flowing ball, flowing ball, flowing ball, And your dear bodies drown in the salt sea.
Oh no! we won't lower our lofty topsail, Nor bow ourselves under your lee, And you shan't take from us our rich merchant goods, merchant goods, merchant goods Nor point our bold guns to the sea.
With broadside and broadside and at it they went For fully two hours or three, Till Henry Martyn gave to her the deathshot, the deathshot, the deathshot, And straight to the bottom went she.
Bad news, bad news, to old England came, Bad news to fair London Town, There's been a rich vessel and she's cast away, cast away, cast away, And all of the merry men drown'd.
# The English and Scottish Popular Ballads/Part 8/Chapter 247

A
'HOW brent's your brow, my Lady Elspat! How golden yallow is your hair! Of all the maids of fair Scotland, There's nane like Lady Elspat fair.' 'Perform your vows, Sweet William,' she says, 'The vows which ye ha made to me, An at the back o my mother's castle This night I'll surely meet wi thee.' But wae be to her brother's page, Who heard the words this twa did say! He's told them to her lady mother, Who wrought Sweet William mieckle wae. For she has taen him Sweet William, An she's gard bind him wi his bow-string Till the red bluide o his fair body Frae ilka nail o his hand did spring. O it fell once upon a time That the Lord Justice came to town; Out has she taen him Sweet William, Brought him before Lord Justice boun. 'An what is the crime, now, madame,' he says, 'Has been committed by this young man?' 'O he has broken my bonny castel, That was well biggit with lime and stane. 'An he has broken my bonny coffers, That was well banded wi aiken ban, An he has stoln my rich jewels; I wot he has them every one.' Then out it spake her Lady Elspat, As she sat by Lord Justice knee; 'Now ye hae taul your tale, mother, I pray, Lord Justice, you'l now hear me. 'He has na broken her bonny castel, That was well biggit wi lime and stane, Nor has he stoln her rich jewels, For I wot she has them every one. 'But tho he was my first true love, An tho I had sworn to be his bride, Cause he had not a great estate, She would this way our loves divide.' An out it spake the Lord Justice, I wot the tear was in his ee; 'I see nae fault in this young man, Sae loose his bans, an set him free. 'Take back your love, Lady Elspat, An my best blessing you baith upon! For gin he be your first true love, He is my eldest sister's son. 'There is a steed in my stable Cost me baith gold and white money; Ye's get as mieckle o my free lan As he'll ride about in a summer's day.'
# The English and Scottish Popular Ballads/Part 8/Chapter 249

A
MY love she is a gentlewoman, Has her living by the seam; I kenna how she is provided This night for me and my foot-groom. He is gane to Annie's bower-door, And gently tirled at the pin: 'Ye sleep, ye wake, my love Annie, Ye'll rise and lat your true-love in.' Wi her white fingers lang and sma She gently lifted up the pin; Wi her arms lang and bent She kindly caught sweet Willie in. 'O will ye go to cards or dice? Or will ye go to play? Or will ye go to a well made bed, And sleep a while till day?' 'I winna gang to cards nor dice, Nor yet will I to play; But I will gang to a well made bed, And sleep a while till day. 'My love Annie, my dear Annie, I would be at your desire; But wae mat fa the auld Matrons, As she sits by the kitchen fire!' 'Keep up your heart, Willie,' she said, 'Keep up your heart, dinna fear; It's seven years, and some guid mair, Sin her foot did file the flear.' They hadna kissd nor love clapped, As lovers when they meet, Till up it raise the auld Matrons, Sae well's she spread her feet. O wae mat fa the auld Matrons, Sae clever's she took the gate! And she's gaen ower yon lang, lang hill, Knockd at the sheriff's yate. 'Ye sleep, ye wake, my lord?' she said; 'Are ye not your bower within? There's knight in bed wi your daughter, I fear she's gotten wrang.' 'Ye'll do ye down thro Kelso town, Waken my wall-wight men; And gin ye hae your wark well dune I'll be there at command.' She's done her down thro Kelso town, Wakend his wall-wight men; But gin she had her wark well done He was there at command. He had his horse wi corn fodderd, His men armd in mail; He gae the Matrons half a merk To show them ower the hill. Willie sleepd, but Annie waked Till she heard their bridles ring; Then tapped on her love's shoulder, And said, Ye've sleepit lang. 'O save me, save me, my blessd lady, Till I've on my shooting-gear; I dinna fear the king himsell, Tho he an's men were here.' Then they shot in, and Willie out, The arrows graz'd his brow; The maid she wept and tore her hair, Says, This can never do. Then they shot in, and he shot out, The bow brunt Willie's hand; But aye he kissd her ruby lips, Said, My dear, thinkna lang. He set his horn to his mouth, And has blawn loud and shrill, And he's calld on his brother John, In Ringlewood he lay still. The first an shot that Lord John shot, He wound fifty and fifteen; The next an shot that Lord John shot, He ca'd out the sheriff's een. 'O some o you lend me an arm, Some o you lend me twa; And they that came for strife this day, Take horse, ride fast awa. 'But wae mat fa yon, auld Matrons, An ill death mat ye die! I'll burn you on yon high hill-head, Blaw your ashes in the sea.'
# The English and Scottish Popular Ballads/Part 8/Chapter 248

A
'O SAW ye my father? or saw ye my mother? Or saw ye my true-love John?' 'I saw not your father, I saw not your mother, But I saw your true-love John. 'It's now ten at night, and the stars gie nae light, And the bells they ring ding, dang; He's met wi some delay that causeth him to stay, But he will be here ere lang.' The surly auld earl did naething but snarl, And Johny's face it grew red; Yet, tho he often sighd, he neer a word replied Till all were asleep in bed. Up Johny rose, and to the door he goes, And gently tirl d the pin; The lassie taking tent unto the door she went, And she opend and let him in. 'And are ye come at last? and do I hold ye fast? And is my Johny true?' 'I hae nae time to tell, but sae lang's I like mysell Sae lang will I love you.' 'Flee, flee up, my bonny grey cock, And craw when it is day; Your neck shall be like the bonny beaten gold, And your wings of the silver grey.' The cock prov'd false, and untrue he was, For he crew an hour oer soon; The lassie thought it was day when she sent her love away, And it was but a blink of the moon.
# The Going (Gibson)

"To the Memory of Rupert Brooke"; as rendered in Poems (1904-1917) (1917).
He's gone. I do not understand. I only know That as he turned to go And waved his hand In his young eyes a sudden glory shone: And I was dazzled by a sunset glow, And he was gone.
23d April, 1915
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 1962, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 61 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.
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# The Godson

English-language translations of Крестник include:
* The Godson, translated by Louise and Aylmer Maude, in Twenty-three Tales, 1906
* The Godfather, translated by Robert Nisbet Bain, in Tales from Tolstoi, 1901
# The Going (Hardy)

Why did you give no hint that night That quickly after the morrow's dawn, And calmly, as if indifferent quite, You would close your term here, up and be gone  Where I could not follow  With wing of swallow To gain one glimpse of you ever anon!
 Never to bid good-bye,  Or give me the softest call, Or utter a wish for a word, while I Saw morning harden upon the wall,  Unmoved, unknowing  That your great going Had place that moment, and altered all.
Why do you make me leave the house And think for a breath it is you I see At the end of the alley of bending boughs Where so often at dusk you used to be;  Till in darkening dankness  The yawning blankness Of the perspective sickens me!
 You were she who abode  By those red-veined rocks far West, You were the swan-necked one who rode Along the beetling Beeny Crest,  And, reining nigh me,  Would muse and eye me, While Life unrolled us its very best.
Why, then, latterly did we not speak, Did we not think of those days long dead, And ere your vanishing strive to seek That time's renewal? We might have said,  "In this bright spring weather  We'll visit together Those places that once we visited."
 Well, well! All's past amend,  Unchangeable. It must go. I seem but a dead man held on end To sink down soon . . . O you could not know  That such swift fleeing  No soul foreseeing - Not even I--would undo me so!
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
# The Going of the Battery, Wives' Lament

O it was sad enough, weak enough, mad enough
Light in their loving as soldiers can be First to risk choosing them, leave alone losing them
Now, in far battle, beyond the South Sea! . . .
Rain came down drenchingly; but we unblenchingly
Trudged on beside them through mirk and through mire,
They stepping steadily--only too readily!
Scarce as if stepping brought parting-time nigher.
Great guns were gleaming there, living things seeming there,
Cloaked in their tar-cloths, upmouthed to the night;
Wheels wet and yellow from axle to felloe,
Throats blank of sound, but prophetic to sight.
Gas-glimmers drearily, blearily, eerily
Lit our pale faces outstretched for one kiss,
While we stood prest to them, with a last quest to them
Not to court perils that honour could miss.
Sharp were those sighs of ours, blinded these eyes of ours,
When at last moved away under the arch
All we loved. Aid for them each woman prayed for them,
Treading back slowly the track of their march.
Someone said: "Nevermore will they come: evermore
Are they now lost to us." O it was wrong!
Though may be hard their ways, some Hand will guard their ways,
Bear them through safely, in brief time or long.
Yet, voices haunting us, daunting us, taunting us,
Hint in the night-time when life beats are low
Other and graver things . . . Hold we to braver things,
Wait we, in trust, what Time's fulness shall show.
# The Gold-Bug

* "The Gold-Bug", in Tales (1845)
* "The Gold-Bug", in Mystery Tales of Edgar Allan Poe (1907)
* "The Gold Bug", illustrated by Arthur Rackham, in Poe's Tales of Mystery and Imagination (1935)
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