OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems of Optimism/This is my task

When the whole world resounds with rude alarms Of warring arms, When God’s good earth, from border unto border Shows man’s disorder, Let me not waste my dower of mortal might In grieving over wrongs I cannot right. This is my task: amid discordant strife To keep a clean sweet centre in my life; And though the human orchestra may be Playing all out of key - To tune my soul to symphonies above, And sound the note of love. This is my task.
When by the minds of men most beauteous Faith Seems doomed to death, And to her place is hoisted, by soul treason, The dullard Reason, Let me not hurry forth with flag unfurled To proselyte an unbelieving world. This is my task: in depths of unstarred night Or in diverting and distracting light To keep (in crowds, or in my room alone) Faith on her lofty throne; And whatsoever happen or befall, To see God’s hand in all. This is my task.
When, in church pews, men worship God in words, But meet their kind with swords, When Fair Religion, stripped of holy passion, Walks masked as Fashion, Let me not wax indignant at the sight; Or waste my strength bewailing her sad plight. This is my task: to search in my own mind Until the qualities of God I find; To seek them in the hearts of friend and foe - Or high or low; And in my hours of toil, or prayer, or play, To live my creed each day. This is my task.
# Poems of Optimism/To the women of Australia

A toast to the splendid daughters Of the New World over the waters,  A world that is great as new; Daughters of brave old races, Daughters of heights and spaces, Broad seas and broad earth places -  Hail to your land and you!
The sun and the winds have fed you; The width of your world has led you  Out into the larger view; Strong with a strength that is tender, Bright with a primal splendour, Homage and praise we render -  Hail to your land and you!
Sisters and daughters and mothers, Standing abreast with your brothers,  Working for things that are true; Thinking and doing and daring, Giving, receiving, and sharing, Earning the crowns you are wearing -  Hail to your land and you!
# Poems of Optimism/The secret of prayer

For he who climbs to say his prayer Meets half way the descending Grace.
ELSA BARKER, in British Review.
This is the secret of all prayers  That in God’s sight have worth, They must be uttered from the stairs  That wind away from earth; And he who mounts to speak the word, He shall be heard. He shall be heard.
And he who will not leave himself,  But stays down with his cares, Or with his thoughts of pride and pelf,  Though loud and long his prayers, Beyond earth’s dome of arching skies They shall not rise. They shall not rise.
Oh, ye who seek for strength and power  Seek first some quiet spot, And fashion through a silent hour  Your stairway, thought by thought; Then climb, and pray to God on high: He shall reply. He shall reply.
# Poems of Optimism/The sword

Amidst applauding cheers I won a prize. A cynic watched me, with ironic eyes; An open foe, in open hatred, sneered; I cared for neither. Then my friend appeared. Eager, I listened for his glad ‘Well done.’ But sudden shadow seemed to shroud my sun. He praised me: yet each slow, unwilling word Forced from its sheath base Envy’s hidden sword, Two-edged, it wounded me; but, worst of all, It thrust my friend down from his pedestal, And showed him as he was - so small, so small.
# Poems of Optimism/To the teachers of the young

How large thy task, O teacher of the young, To take the ravelled threads by parents flung With careless hands, and through consummate care To weave a fabric, fine and firm and fair. God’s uncompleted work is thine to do - Be brave and true!
# Poems of Optimism/Unsatisfied

The bird flies home to its young; The flower folds its leaves about an opening bud; And in my neighbour’s house there is the cry of a child. I close my window that I need not hear.
She is mine, and she is very beautiful: And in her heart there is no evil thought. There is even love in her heart - Love of life, love of joy, love of this fair world, And love of me (or love of my love for her); Yet she will never consent to bear me a child. And when I speak of it she weeps, Always she weeps, saying: ‘Do I not bring joy enough into your life? Are you not satisfied with me and my love, As I am satisfied with you? Never would I urge you to some great peril To please my whim; yet ever so you urge me, Urge me to risk my happiness - yea, life itself - So lightly do you hold me.’ And then she weeps, Always she weeps, until I kiss away her tears And soothe her with sweet lies, saying I am content. Then she goes singing through the house like some bright bird Preening her wings, making herself all beautiful, Perching upon my knee, and pecking at my lips With little kisses. So again love’s ship Goes sailing forth upon a portless sea, From nowhere unto nowhere; and it takes Or brings no cargoes to enrich the world.
 The years Are passing by us. We will yet be old Who now are young. And all the man in me Cries for the reproduction of myself Through her I love. Why, love and youth like ours Could populate with gods and goddesses This great, green earth, and give the race new types Were it made fruitful! Often I can see, As in a vision, desolate old age And loneliness descending on us two, And nowhere in the world, nowhere beyond the earth, Fruit of my loins and of her womb to feed Our hungry hearts. To me it seems More sorrowful than sitting by small graves And wetting sad-eyed pansies with our tears.
The bird flies home to its young; The flower folds its leaves about an opening bud; And in my neighbour’s house there is the cry of a child. I close my window that I need not hear.
# Poems of Optimism/The second coming

How will Christ come back again, How will He be seen, and where,  Where His chosen way? Will He come in dead of night, Shining in His robes of light,  Or at dawn of day?
Will it be at Christmas time, When the bells are all achime,  That He is re-born? Or will He return and bring Wide and wondrous wakening  On some Easter morn?
When will this sad world rejoice, Listening to that golden voice  Speaking unto men? Lives there one who yet shall cry Loud to startled passers-by -  ‘Christ has come again?’
List the answer - Christ is here! Seek and you shall find him near -  Dwelling on the earth. By the world’s awakened thought, This great miracle is wrought,  This the second birth.
While you wonder where and now Christ shall come - behold him now,  Patient, loving, meek. Looking from your neighbour’s eyes, Or in humble toiling guise -  Lo! the Christ you seek.
Look for him in human hearts, In the shops, and in the marts,  And beside your hearth. Search and speak the watchword Love, And the Christ shall rise and prove  He has come to earth.
Sorrowful ofttimes is He That we have not eyes to see,  Have not ears to hear, As we call to Him afar, Out beyond some distant star,  While He stands so near.
Seek Him, seek Him, where He dwells, Chime the voices of the bells  On the Christmas air. Christ has come to earth again, He is in the hearts of men,  Seek and find him there.
# Poems of Optimism/The statue

A granite rock in the mountain side Gazed on the world and was satisfied. It watched the centuries come and go, It welcomed the sunlight yet loved the snow, It grieved when the forest was forced to fall, Yet joyed when steeples rose white and tall In the valley below it, and thrilled to hear The voice of the great town roaring near.
When the mountain stream from its idle play Was caught by the mill-wheel and borne away And trained to labour, the gray rock mused, ‘Tree and verdure and stream are used By man the master, but I remain Friend of the mountain and star and plain, Unchanged forever by God’s decree While passing centuries bow to me.’
Then all unwarned, with a mighty shock Out of the mountain was wrenched the rock; Bruised and battered, and broken in heart It was carried away to the common mart. Wrenched, and ruined in peace and pride, ‘Oh, God is cruel,’ the granite cried, ‘Comrade of mountain, of star the friend, By all deserted - how sad my end.’
A dreaming sculptor in passing by Gazed on the granite with thoughtful eye; Then stirred with a purpose supremely grand He bade his dream in the rock expand. And lo! from the broken and shapeless mass That grieved and doubted, it came to pass That a glorious statue of priceless worth And infinite beauty adorned the earth.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/Une Nuit que J’étais près d’une affreuse Juive

UNE NUIT QUE J’ÉTAIS PRÈS D’UNE AFFREUSE JUIVE
A hideous Jewess lay with me for hire One night: two corpses side by side we seemed And stretched by that polluted thing I dreamed Of the sad beauty of my vain desire.
I thought upon her brow clad round with fire And matchless strength, her native majesty, Her perfumed helm of hair whose memory Makes me toward Love’s heights to reaspire.
For fervently I would have rained, my Sweet, Fond kisses over all thy form divine Even from thy black tresses to thy feet,
If some soft evening, with a single tear, O cruel queen, thou couldst have dimmed the clear Cold splendour of those icy eyes of thine.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/To the Bodies of the Dead

TO THE BODIES OF THE DEAD
O husks of vanished souls, O bodies cast away Into drear, darkened holes Far from the light of day, O tender bodies, can ye not feel at all, Pent by your thick earth-wall So desolate, so desolate? Once quivering heart and brain, Within you doth no spark o’ the spirit remain To mourn your pitiful fate?
Ah, nay! though some of you in dank, moist earth were laid, Naught but a few thin boards for screen, which soon decayed; Creeping and soft and quiet The worms hold silent riot, They burrow rotting skin and flesh, Eagerly writhing through, and lose Themselves amid the coiling bowels’ mesh
Pricking, and forth the secret juices ooze, The which they suck, nor cease Ever, in those abodes of ghastly peace.
And some are in dry vaults, encased in solid stone; But these fare otherwise, for ribs and gaunt breast-bone
Gradually protrude as the brown and shrivelled skin Sinks slowly, and the flesh moulders away within,
Crumbling into dust; Strong arm and lofty brow Which made the nations bow, Wrapt in eternal gloom Crumble into dust; Yea, face and breasts and womb Which moved men’s love and lust, Alike within the tomb Fall to a little dust.
O solitary hearts that no pain sears, I give you gifts of grief through all my years; O poor transformèd eyes that may not weep, I bring you many tears; O void dark brains laid in ignoble rest, Though ye be buried deep, Your unborn thoughts in me made manifest Throng to you where ye sleep.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Sadness of the Moon

THE SADNESS OF THE MOON
This evening the Moon dreams more languidly, Like a beauty who on many cushions rests, And with her light hand fondles lingeringly, Before she sleeps, the slope of her sweet breasts.
On her soft satined avalanches’ height Dying, she laps herself for hours and hours In long, long swoons, and gazes at the white Visions which rise athwart the blue-like flowers.
When sometimes in her perfect indolence She lets a furtive tear steal gently thence, Some pious poet, a lone, sleepless one,
Takes in his hollowed hand this gem, shot through, Like an opal stone, with gleams of every hue, And in his heart’s depths hides it from the sun.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Surviving Sense

THE SURVIVING SENSE
The rapture is over, The passion for pressure is spent, And, lover by lover, We lie in a languid content; Still warmed by our flame’s afterglow We speak not, but take One soft kiss now and then just to show That we still are awake.
In the weak wind the curtain Stirs faintly, the light of the fire Flickers pale and uncertain Like the last of our sated desire; Here as our souls sink and fall Into cavernous sleep, Do you think, as I think, of it all, What we lose, what we keep?
When of all this fierce splendour Of lust are our bodies bereft, When these limbs strong and tender Have no power or grace in them left, When we have outlived and outworn The delights of the flesh, We shall smile at this past—not in scorn— If we keep our hearts fresh.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Warner

THE WARNER
Each man who is man, high or low, Has in his heart a yellow snake Who on a throne his seat doth take And answers “I desire” with “No.”
Plunge thine eyes deep in Sirens’ eyes, Drink in their sensuous sorceries; The Tooth says, “Think on what is right.”
Yea, breed thy children, plant thy trees, Polish thy verse or carve thy frieze, The Tooth says, “Shalt thou live this night?”
Man cannot live a moment here, Whate’er he plan, or ill or well, But boding, insupportable, The Viper whispers in his ear.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/Tout Entière

TOUT ENTIÈRE
This morning in my attic high The Demon came to visit me, And seeking faults in my reply, He said: “I would inquire of thee,
“Of all the beauties which compose Her charming body’s potent spell, Of all the objects black and rose Which make the thing you love so well,
“Which is the sweetest?” O my soul! Thou didst rejoin: “How tell of parts, When all I know is that the whole Works magic in my heart of hearts?
“Where all is fair, how should I say What single grace is my delight? She shines on me like break of day And she consoles me as the night.
“There flows through all her perfect frame A harmony too exquisite That weak analysis should name The numberless accords of it.
“O mystic metamorphosis! My separate senses all are blent; Within her breath soft music is, And in her voice a subtle scent!”
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/Two Triumphs

TWO TRIUMPHS
Fills the scorchèd way with clamour: shouts of people, Clash of cymbals, rolling of the chariots, Tramp of feet. The long line winds to sight. The shouts grow louder and louder, Exulting cries of a crowd triumphant, Seeing the train of the captive chiefs, Dark-skinned and bearded, beads of sweat shining On fevered brows. Hopelessly, wearily, With great black melancholy eyes cast down, Walk fettered Asian maids. But, ah! the splendour of gold On the car, and the purple robe of the victor aloft, And his haughty mien, and his eyes. . . .
•••••• Dead, rotten, dead, two thousand years ago.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/The Spiritual Dawn

THE SPIRITUAL DAWN
When upon revellers the stained dawn breaks The fierce ideal comes with it; at that hour, Stirred by some terrible avenging power, An angel in the sated brute awakes.
Above the stricken, suffering man there glow Far azure plains of unimagined bliss Which draw his dreaming spirit like the abyss. O pure, beloved Goddess, even so
O’er the smoked wrecks of stupid scenes of shame Brighter and rosier thy sweet memory Hovers before my wide eyes hauntingly. . . .
The Sun has dimmed and charred the candles’ flame, And thus, my glorious all-conquering one, Thy shade is peer to the immortal Sun.
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/To Theodore de Banville, 1842

TO THEODORE DE BANVILLE, 1842
So proud your port, your arm so powerful. With such a grip you grip the goddess’ hair, That one might take you, from your casual air, For a young ruffian flinging down his trull.
Your clear eye flashing with precocity, You have displayed yourself proud architect Of fabrics so audaciously correct That we may guess what your ripe prime will be.
Poet, our blood ebbs out through every pore; Is it, perchance, the robe the Centaur bore, Which made a sullen streamlet of each vein,
Was three times dipped within the venom fell Of those old reptiles fierce and terrible Whom, in his cradle, Hercules had slain?
# Poems and Baudelaire Flowers/To the Continental Socialists

TO THE CONTINENTAL SOCIALISTS FEBRUARY 1906
We who have but begun, We who as yet are few, Send out our hearts to you Whose cause and ours is one, Who long have dauntless stood And witnessed with your blood The Holy Brotherhood Of all beneath the sun.
Almost we were as these With eyes but seeing not, Well fed or ill, who rot In poverty or ease; Till on our ears swift-smiting There came for our souls’ lighting A rumour of men fighting Across the narrow seas.
As far fleets we did mark Your columns in the battle, And your clamour, as the rattle Of cannon through the dark, From out your dim coasts welling, Came faint but ever swelling, And, as a breath compelling, Revived the faded spark.
Yea, faith was in the mire And hope had shrunk and sickened Till you within us quickened The Dream and the Desire; The whisper of your name in us Blew as a wind of shame in us Until the dwindled flame in us Burst in a mighty fire.
And by its blaze we knew The road ’twas ours to follow, And over hill and hollow We set us to pursue That road with toil and fasting, Our thoughts for comfort casting Out to the everlasting, Illimitable blue.
Still as we go we win us New comrades by the way To share by night and day What doom the Fates may spin us; Each one the old path spurneth And never one returneth, And brighter, brighter, burneth The fervour that is in us.
O glow of things sublime! O glory of the vision! May anger or derision Weigh on our souls, who climb?
May furious fool or sneerer Retard our steps when nearer And clearer, ever clearer, We view the Coming Time?
The heavens overarching With the echo shall be ringing Of those who travel singing To the goal of all their searching: The solid earth thereunder Shall thrill with joy and wonder Beneath the steady thunder Of many nations marching.
Immeasurably vast We see the multitude Who stand where none have stood And tread the plains at last (Error and Darkness riven), Of that terrestrial heaven For which the race has striven Through all the ages past;
The land foreseen of old, Where naught is reaped unsown And human blood and bone Are neither bought nor sold; An earth where kings’ oppressions And prayers and intercessions To priest-contrived obsessions Shall be a strange tale told.
Where, upright ’mid the spheres, Great Man, of Man the friend, Shall rise and make an end Of idle hopes and fears; Where, truth and duty plainer, Man shall be freer, saner, And, of himself sustainer, Shall wipe away all tears.
We who have but begun, We who as yet are few, Send out our hearts to you Whose cause and ours is one, Who long have dauntless prest Onward toward the quest. O Brothers, noblest, best Of all beneath the sun.
# Poems of Passion/Sunset

I saw the day lean o'er the world's sharp edge  And peer into night's chasm, dark and damp;  High in his hand he held a blazing lamp, Then dropped it and plunged headlong down the ledge.
With lurid splendor that swift paled to gray,  I saw the dim skies suddenly flush bright.  'Twas but the expiring glory of the light Flung from the hand of the adventurous day.
# Poems of Passion/The Saddest Hour

The saddest hour of anguish and of loss  Is not that season of supreme despair  When we can find no least light anywhere To gild the dread, black shadow of the Cross; Not in that luxury of sorrow when  We sup on salt of tears, and drink the gall  Of memories of days beyond recall— Of lost delights that cannot come again.
 But when, with eyes that are no longer wet, We look out on the great, wide world of men, And, smiling, lean toward a bright to-morrow,  Then backward shrink, with sudden keen regret,  To find that we are learning to forget: Ah! then we face the saddest hour of sorrow.
# Poems of Passion/The Common Lot

It is a common fate—a woman's lot—  To waste on one the riches of her soul, Who takes the wealth she gives him, but cannot  Repay the interest, and much less the whole.
As I look up into your eyes and wait  For some response to my fond gaze and touch, It seems to me there is no sadder fate  Than to be doomed to loving overmuch.   Are you not kind? Ah, yes, so very kind—  So thoughtful of my comfort, and so true. Yes, yes, dear heart; but I, not being blind,  Know that I am not loved as I love you.
One tenderer word, a little longer kiss,  Will fill my soul with music and with song; And if you seem abstracted, or I miss  The heart-tone from your voice, my world goes wrong.
And oftentimes you think me childish—weak—  When at some thoughtless word the tears will start; You cannot understand how aught you speak  Has power to stir the depths of my poor heart.
I cannot help it, dear,—I wish I could,  Or feign indifference where I now adore; For if I seemed to love you less you would,  Manlike, I have no doubt, love me the more.
'Tis a sad gift, that much applauded thing,  A constant heart; for fact doth daily prove That constancy finds oft a cruel sting,  While fickle natures win the deeper love.
# Poems of Passion/The Beautiful Land of Nod

Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear, Your head like the golden-rod, And we will go sailing away from here To the beautiful Land of Nod. Away from life's hurry and flurry and worry, Away from earth's shadows and gloom, To a world of fair weather we'll float off together, Where roses are always in bloom.
Just shut your eyes and fold your hands, Your hands like the leaves of a rose, And we will go sailing to those fair lands That never an atlas shows. On the North and the West they are bounded by rest, On the South and the East, by dreams; 'Tis the country ideal, where nothing is real, But everything only seems.
Just drop down the curtains of your dear eyes Those eyes like a bright bluebell, And we will sail out under starlit skies, To the land where the fairies dwell.
Down the river of sleep our barque shall sweep, Till it reaches that mystical Isle Which no man hath seen, but where all have been, And there we will pause awhile. I will croon you a song as we float along To that shore that is blessed of God, Then, ho! for that fair land, we're off for that rare land, That beautiful Land of Nod.
# Poems of Passion/The Lost Garden

There was a fair green garden sloping From the south-east side of the mountain-ledge; And the earliest tint of the dawn came groping Down through its paths, from the day's dim edge. The bluest skies and the reddest roses Arched and varied its velvet sod; And the glad birds sang, as the soul supposes The angels sing on the hills of God.
I wandered there when my veins seemed bursting With life's rare rapture and keen delight, And yet in my heart was a constant thirsting For something over the mountain-height. I wanted to stand in the blaze of glory That turned to crimson the peaks of snow, And the winds from the west all breathed a story Of realms and regions I longed to know.
I saw on the garden's south side growing The brightest blossoms that breathe of June; I saw in the east how the sun was glowing, And the gold air shook with a wild bird's tune; I heard the drip of a silver fountain, And the pulse of a young laugh throbbed with glee But still I looked out over the mountain Where unnamed wonders awaited me.
I came at last to the western gateway, That led to the path I longed to climb; But a shadow fell on my spirit straightway, For close at my side stood gray-beard Time. I paused, with feet that were fain to linger, Hard by that garden's golden gate, But Time spoke, pointing with one stern finger; "Pass on," he said, "for the day groes late."
And now on the chill gray cliffs I wander, The heights recede which I thought to find, And the light seems dim on the mountain yonder, When I think of the garden I left behind. Should I stand at last on its summit's splendor, I know full well it would not repay For the fair lost tints of the dawn so tender That crept up over the edge o' day.
I would go back, but the ways are winding, If ways there are to that land, in sooth, For what man succeeds in ever finding A path to the garden of his lost youth? But I think sometimes, when the June stars glisten, That a rose scent dufts from far away, And I know, when I lean from the cliffs and listen, That a young laugh breaks on the air like spray.