OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/First-Day Thoughts

FIRST-DAY THOUGHTS
In calm and cool and silence, once again I find my old accustomed place among My brethren, where, perchance, no human tongue Shall utter words; where never hymn is sung, Nor deep-toned organ blown, nor censer swung, Nor dim light falling through the pictured pane! There, syllabled by silence, let me hear The still small voice which reached the prophet’s ear; Read in my heart a still diviner law Than Israel’s leader on his tables saw! There let me strive with each besetting sin, Recall my wandering fancies, and restrain The sore disquiet of a restless brain; And, as the path of duty is made plain,
May grace be given that I may walk therein, Not like the hireling, for his selfish gain, With backward glances and reluctant tread, Making a merit of his coward dread, But, cheerful, in the light around me thrown, Walking as one to pleasant service led; Doing God’s will as if it were my own, Yet trusting not in mine, but in His strength alone!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Forgiveness

FORGIVENESS
My heart was heavy, for its trust had been Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong; So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men, One summer Sabbath day I strolled among The green mounds of the village burial-place; Where, pondering how all human love and hate Find one sad level; and how, soon or late, Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened face,
And cold hands folded over a still heart, Pass the green threshold of our common grave, Whither all footsteps tend, whence none depart, Awed for myself, and pitying my race, Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave, Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave!
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Fitz-Greene Halleck

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK
AT THE UNVEILING OF HIS STATUE
Among their graven shapes to whom Thy civic wreaths belong, O city of his love, make room For one whose gift was song.
Not his the soldier’s sword to wield, Nor his the helm of state, Nor glory of the stricken field, Nor triumph of debate.
In common ways, with common men, He served his race and time As well as if his clerkly pen Had never danced to rhyme.
If, in the thronged and noisy mart, The Muses found their son, Could any say his tuneful art A duty left undone?
He toiled and sang; and year by year Men found their homes more sweet, And through a tenderer atmospher Looked down the brick-walled street.
The Greek’s wild onset Wall Street knew; The Red King walked Broadway; And Alnwick Castle’s roses blew From Palisades to Bay.
Fair City by the Sea! upraise His veil with reverent hands; And mingle with thy own the praise And pride of other lands.
Let Greece his fiery lyric breathe Above her hero-urns; And Scotland, with her holly, wreathe The flower he culled for Burns.
Oh, stately stand thy palace walls, Thy tall ships ride the seas; To-day thy poet’s name recalls A prouder thought than these.
Not less thy pulse of trade shall beat, Nor less thy tall fleets swim, That shaded square and dusty street Are classic ground through him.
Alive, he loved, like all who sing, The echoes of his song; Too late the tardy meed we bring, The praise delayed so long.
Too late, alas! Of all who knew The living man, to-day Before his unveiled face, how few Make bare their locks of gray!
Our lips of praise must soon be dumb, Our grateful eyes be dim; O brothers of the days to come, Take tender charge of him!
New hands the wires of song may sweep, New voices challenge fame; But let no moss of years o’ercreep The lines of Halleck’s name.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/Flowers in Winter

FLOWERS IN WINTER
PAINTED UPON A PORTE LIVRE
How strange to greet, this frosty morn, In graceful counterfeit of flowers, These children of the meadows, born Of sunshine and of showers!
How well the conscious wood retains The pictures of its flower-sown home,
The lights and shades, the purple stains, And golden hues of bloom!
It was a happy thought to bring To the dark season’s frost and rime This painted memory of spring, This dream of summer-time.
Our hearts are lighter for its sake, Our fancy’s age renews its youth, And dim-remembered fictions take The guise of present truth.
A wizard of the Merrimac,— So old ancestral legends say,— Could call green leaf and blossom back To frosted stem and spray.
The dry logs of the cottage wall, Beneath his touch, put out their leaves; The clay-bound swallow, at his call, Played round the icy eaves.
The settler saw his oaken flail Take bud, and bloom before his eyes; From frozen pools he saw the pale, Sweet summer lilies rise.
To their old homes, by man profaned, Came the sad dryads, exiled long, And through their leafy tongues complained Of household use and wrong.
The beechen platter sprouted wild, The pipkin wore its old-time green, The cradle o’er the sleeping child Became a leafy screen.
Haply our gentle friend hath met, While wandering in her sylvan quest, Haunting his native woodlands yet, That Druid of the West;
And, while the dew on leaf and flower Glistened in moonlight clear and still, Learned the dusk wizard’s spell of power, And caught his trick of skill.
But welcome, be it new or old, The gift which makes the day more bright, And paints, upon the ground of cold And darkness, warmth and light!
Without is neither gold nor green; Within, for birds, the birch-logs sing; Yet, summer-like, we sit between The autumn and the spring.
The one, with bridal blush of rose, And sweetest breath of woodland balm, And one whose matron lips unclose In smiles of saintly calm.
Fill soft and deep, O winter snow! The sweet azalea’s oaken dells, And hide the bank where roses blow, And swing the azure bells!
O’erlay the amber violet’s leaves, The purple aster’s brookside home, Guard all the flowers her pencil gives A life beyond their bloom.
And she, when spring comes round again, By greening slope and singing flood Shall wander, seeking, not in vain, Her darlings of the wood.
# The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/For Righteousness' Sake

FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS’ SAKE
Inscribed to friends under arrest for treason against the slave power. [Originally entitled Lines.]
The age is dull and mean. Men creep, Not walk; with blood too pale and tame To pay the debt they owe to shame; Buy cheap, sell dear; eat, drink, and sleep
Down-pillowed, deaf to moaning want; Pay tithes for soul-insurance; keep Six days to Mammon, one to Cant.
In such a time, give thanks to God, That somewhat of the holy rage With which the prophets in their age On all its decent seemings trod, Has set your feet upon the lie, That man and ox and soul and clod Are market stock to sell and buy!
The hot words from your lips, my own, To caution trained, might not repeat; But if some tares among the wheat Of generous thought and deed were sown, No common wrong provoked your zeal; The silken gauntlet that is thrown In such a quarrel rings like steel.
The brave old strife the fathers saw For Freedom calls for men again Like those who battled not in vain For England’s Charter, Alfred’s law; And right of speech and trial just Wage in your name their ancient war With venal courts and perjured trust.
God’s ways seem dark, but, soon or late, They touch the shining hills of day; The evil cannot brook delay, The good can well afford to wait. Give ermined knaves their hour of crime; Ye have the future grand and great, The safe appeal of Truth to Time!
# The Book of Tea

London and New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons, page iii
THE BOOK OF TEA
BY
OKAKURA-KAKUZO
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
London and New York
1906
Copyright 1906 by
Fox Duffield & Company
To JOHN LAFARGE
Sensei
CONTENTS
| | PAGE |
| Chapter I. The Cup of Humanity |
| Tea ennobled into Teaism, a religion of æstheticism, the adoration of the beautiful among everyday facts—Teaism developed among both nobles and peasants—The mutual misunderstanding of the New World and the Old—The Worship of Tea in the West—Early records of Tea in European writing—The Taoists' version of the combat between Spirit and Matter—The modern struggle for wealth and power | 3 |
| Chapter II. The Schools of Tea |
| The three stages of the evolution of Tea—The Boiled Tea, the Whipped Tea, and the Steeped Tea, representative of the Tang, the Sung, and the Ming dynasties of China—Luwuh, the first apostle of Tea—The Tea-ideals of the three dynasties—To the latter-day Chinese Tea is a delicious beverage, but not an ideal—In Japan Tea is a religion of the art of life | 25 |
| Chapter III. Taoism and Zennism |
| The connection of Zennism with Tea—Taoism, and its successor Zennism, represent the individualistic trend of the Southern Chinese mind—Taoism accepts the mundane and tries to find beauty in our world of woe and ​worry—Zennism emphasizes the teachings of Taoism—Through consecrated meditation may be attained supreme self-realisation—Zennism, like Taoism, is the worship of Relativity—Ideal of Teaism a result of the Zen conception of greatness in the smallest incidents of life—Taoism furnished the basis for aesthetic ideals, Zennism made them practical | 47 |
| Chapter IV. The Tea-Room |
| The tea-room does not pretend to be other than a mere cottage—The simplicity and purism of the tea-room—Symbolism in the construction of the tea-room—The system of its decoration—A sanctuary from the vexations of the outer world | 73 |
| Chapter V. Art Appreciation |
| Sympathetic communion of minds necessary for art appreciation—The secret understanding between the master and ourselves—The value of suggestion—Art is of value only to the extent that it speaks to us—No real feeling in much of the apparent enthusiasm to-day—Confusion of art with archaeology—We are destroying art in destroying the beautiful in life | 103 |
| Chapter VI. Flowers |
| Flowers our constant friends—The Master of Flowers—The waste of Flowers among Western communities—The art of floriculture in the East—The Tea-Masters and the Cult of Flowers—The Art of Flower Arrangement—The adoration of the Flower for its own ​sake—The Flower-Masters—Two main branches of the schools of Flower Arrangement, the Formalistic and the Naturalesque | 123 |
| Chapter VII. Tea-Masters |
| Real appreciation of art only possible to those who make of it a living influence—Contributions of the Tea-Masters to art—Their influence on the conduct of life—The Last Tea of Rikiu | 151 |
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 Book of Scottish Song/Young Jocky

Young Jocky.
[Two or three lines of this song are old. The rest is by Burns. The tune is given in Oswald with the title "Young Jocky was the blythest lad in a' our town."]
Young Jocky was the blythest lad, In a' our town or here awa'; Fu' blythe he whistled at the gaud, Fu' lichtly danced he in the ha'! He roosed my een sae bonnie blue, He roosed my waist sae genty sma'; And aye my heart cam' to my mou', When ne'er a body heard or saw.
My Jocky toils upon the plain, Thro' wind and weet, thro' frost and snaw; And ower the lee I look fu' fain, When Jocky's owsen hameward ca'. And aye the nicht comes round again, When in his arms he taks me a', And aye he vows he'll be my ain As lang as he has breath to draw.
# The Book of Scottish Song/Young Phemie

Young Phemie.
[James Macdonald.—Here first printed.]
Ae summer eve o' rosy joy, when a' was quiet an' still, I wandered east alang the banks o' lanely Provan Mill; The mavis sang his evening hymn upon the birken tree, An' bade gude nicht to a' the flowers on Rosemount's bonnie lea.
The mellow sang, the shady hour, the lovely autumn sky, Were a' forgot, whene'er I saw young Phemie passing by; For Phemie's face is a' my sang, her smile is life to me, And ne'er a sky sae pleased my heart as Phemie's kindly e'e.
O fauld her in your arms, ye winds, at balmy evening's close, And breathe your sweetest dew-drops on my lovely blooming rose; For a' the dream o' wealth to me, this warld's hope can gi'e, Is hoarded in the gowden vase o' bonnie Phemie's e'e.
# The Book of Taliesin

* related portals: Arthurian legend.
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Commons category, quotes, Wikidata item.
Written by an unknown scribe in the early 14th century, the Book of Taliesin manuscript is housed in the National Library of Wales.

### Contents

* Taliesin's First Address
* The Elegy of the Thousand Sons
* The Fold of the Bards
* The Pleasant Things of Taliesin
* O God, God of Formation
* The Great Prophesy of Britain
* The Hostile Confederacy
* The Battle of the Trees
* The Childhood Achievements of Taliesin
* Daronwy
* Song on Lleenawg
* The Praise of Taliesin
* The Chair of Taliesin
* Song Before the Sons of Llyr
* The Chair of the Sovereign
* The Chair of Cerridwen
* The Song of the Wind
* A Rumour has Come to Me
* The Song to Meed
* The Song to Ale
* In Praise of Tenby
* The Plagues of Egypt
* The Satire on Cynan Garwyn
* The Rod of Moses
* Song of the Horses
* The Contrived World
* On the Face of the Earth
* Alexander the Great
* God the Possessor
* The Spoils of Annwn, or, The Raid on Annwfn
* The Battle of Gwenystrad
* A Song for Urien Rheged
* The Battle of Argoed Llwyfain, song to Urien
* A Song for Urien Rheged
* The Spoils of Taliesin, a Song to Urien
* Song on Gwallawg ab Lleenawg
* The Satisfaction of Urien
* The Death-song of Erof
* The Death-song of Madawg
* The Death-song of Cu-Roi son of Daire
* The Death-song of Dylan son of the Wave
* The Death-song of Owain son of Urien
* The Death-song of Aeddon
* The Death-song of Cunedda
* The Lesser Prophesy of Britain
* The Death-song of Uthyr Pendragon
* A Bright Festivity
* May God exalt
* The Eternal Trinity
* The Praise of Lludd the Greater
* Truly there will be to me a Roman friend
* The Reconciliation of Lludd the Lesser
* The Song of the Great World
* The Song of the Little World
* Darogan Katwaladr
# The Book of Taliesin/The Fold of the Bards

MEDITATING were my thoughts On the vain poetry of the bards of Brython. Making the best of themselves in the chief convention. Enough, the care of the smith’s sledge-hammer. I am in want of a stick, straitened in song, The fold of the bards, who knows it not? Fifteen thousand over it Adjusting it I am a harmonious one; I am a clear singer. I am steel; I am a druid. I am an artificer; I am a scientific one. I am a serpent; I am love; I will indulge in feasting. I am not a confused bard drivelling, When songsters sing a song by memory, They will not make wonderful cries; May I be receiving them. Like receiving clothes without a hand, Like sinking in a lake without swimming The stream boldly rises tumultuously in degree. High in the blood of sea-board towns. The rock wave-surrounded, by great arrangement, Will convey for us a defence, a protection from the enemy. The rock of the chief proprietor, the head of tranquillity. The intoxication of meads will cause us to speak. I am a cell, I am a cleft, I am a restoration, I am the depository of song; I am a literary man; I love the high trees, that afford a protection above, And a bard that composes, without earning anger; I love not him that causes contention; He that speaks ill of the skilful shall not possess mead. It is a fit time to go to the drinking, With the skilful men, about art, And a hundred knots, the custom of the country, The shepherd of the districts, support of gates, Like going without a foot to battle. He would not journey without a foot. He would not breed nuts without trees, Like seeking for ants in the heath. Like an instrument of foolish spoil, Like the retinue of an army without a head, Like feeding the unsheltered on lichen. Like ridging furrows from the country Like reaching the sky with a hook, Like deprecating with the blood of thistles, Like making light for the blind, Like sharing clothes to the naked, Like spreading buttermilk on the sands, Like feeding fish upon milk, Like roofing a hail with leaves, Like killing a tortoise with rods. Like dissolving riches before a word. I am a bard of the hail, I am a chick of the chair. I will cause to loquacious bards a hindrance. Before I am dragged to my harsh reward, May we buy thee, that wilt protect us, thou son of Mary.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Thistle and the Rose

The Thistle and the Rose.
[Robert Allan.—In this song, the spirit of some of our old Jacobite effusions is happily caught. The white rose, as is well known, was the emblem of the Stuart family.]
There grew in bonnie Scotland A thistle and a brier, And aye they twined and clasped, Like sisters kind and dear: The rose it was sae bonnie, It could ilk bosom charm; The thistle spread its thorny leaf, To keep the rose frae harm.
A bonnie laddie tended The rose baith air and late; He watered it, and fanned it, And wove it with his fate, And the leal hearts of Scotland Prayed it might never fa', The thistle was sae bonnie green, The rose sae like the snaw.
But the weird sisters sat Where Hope's fair emblems grew; They drapt a drap upon the rose O' bitter, blasting dew; And aye they twined the mystic thread,— But ere their task was done, The snaw-white shade it disappeared— It withered in the sun!
A bonnie laddie tended The rose baith air an' late; He watered it, and fanned it, And wove it with his fate; But the thistle tap it withered,— Winds bore it far awa',— And Scotland's heart was broken For the rose sae like the snaw!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Tod

The Tod.
"Eh," quo' the tod, "it's a braw licht nicht, The win's i' the wast, and the mune shines bricht, The win's i' the wast, and the mune shines bricht, An' I'll awa' to the toun, O.
"I was down amang yon shepherd's scroggs, I'd like to been worried by his dogs, But, by my sooth! I minded his hogs That nicht I cam' to the toun, O."
He's ta'en the grey goose by the green sleeve, "Ech, ye auld witch! nae langer shall ye live; Your flesh it is tender, your banes I maun prieve, For that I cam' to the toun, O."
Up gat the auld wife out o' her bed, And out o' the window she shot her auld head, "Eh, gudeman! the grey goose is dead, An' the tod has been i' the toun, O."
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Thistle 1

The Thistle.
[Alexander Maclaggan.—Set to music by Mr. Turnbull, Glasgow.]
Hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle, The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me! A fig for the flowers in your lady-built bowers— The strong bearded, weel guarded thistle for me!
'Tis the flower the proud eagle greets in its flight, When he shadows the stars with the wings of his might; 'Tis the flower that laughs at the storm as it blows, For the stronger the tempest the greener it grows! Hurrah for the thistle, &c.
Round the love-lighted hames o' our ain native land— On the bonnetted brow, on the hilt of the brand— On the face o' the shield, 'mid the shouts of the free, May the thistle be seen where the thistle should be! Hurrah for the thistle, &c.
Hale hearts we ha'e yet to bleed in its cause; Bold harps we ha'e yet to sound its applause; How then can it fade, when sic chiels an' sic cheer, And sae mony braw sprouts o' the thistle are here? Then hurrah for the thistle! the brave Scottish thistle, The evergreen thistle of Scotland for me! A fig for the flowers in your lady-built bowers. The strong bearded, weel guarded thistle for me!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Thistle 2

The Thistle.
[James Macdonald.—Here printed for the first time.]
Loo'st thou the thistle that blooms on the mountain, And decks the fair bosom o' Scotland's green howes; Loo'st thou the flow'ret o' Liberty's fountain, The emblem o' friendship, that guards as it grows? The wee lamb may sleep 'neath its shade, wi' its mither, The maukin may find 'neath its branches a lair; And birds o' ilk feather may there flock thegither, But wae to the wretch wha our thistle wad tear!
Loo'st thou the thistle? the broad leaves it weareth Are gemm'd o'er wi' pearls o' morning's sweet dew;— Lo! on ilk dew-drop a dear name it beareth— The name of a freeman o' leal heart and true. Kenn'st thou the story o' proud fame and glory, That's tauld by ilk spike o' its bristled array? Nae wonder our thistle wi' grandeur is hoary— It's auld as creation—it's new as the day!
Loo'st thou the thistle? the rose canna peer it, Nae shamrock can smile wi' sae gaudy an air, The lily maun hide a' its beauty, when near it, The star-flag is bonnie—the thistle is mair. True to the thistle, I'll neer lo'e anither, Whatever my station, wherever I be Its love in my bosom no blighting can wither, Auld Scotland's ain darling, I'll lo'e till I dee.
Here's to ilk pillar that bides by the thistle! Lang may his roof-tree be kept frae decay; Lang may the voice o' happiness whistle In glee round his dwallin' by nicht and by day. Here's to the banners that wave o'er the ocean, The rose of old England, the brave and the free, The Shamrock that raises green Erin's devotion, The Thistle o' Scotland—hurrah for the three!
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Tocherless Lass

The Tocherless Lass.
[Alex. Buchanan.—Here first printed.]
Driegh to me are the hours I'm an unwoo'd maid, Lingering in bloom like a rose in the shade; Folks a' say I'm bonnie, but beauty will fade, Gin they lea' me to linger an unwoo'd maid.
My temper is guid, I've twa dancin' black een, A mou' made for kissin', a roun' dimpled chin, A mind, fain to mak' a man happy an' bein, But I want warl's charm, I'm a tocherless quean.
To win me an wooer, ilk effort I try, I ogle the lads but my glances they shy, I bait me wi' smiles, for to catch them gaun by, But fruitless my fishin', nae laddie looks nigh.
But what needs I mourn though I get na a mate, Or think I am slichted though lanely my state— Love aft leives an hour an' then dees unto hate, Could I think it, I'm far better wantin' a mate.
But losh, my heart warms ilka time that I see A lass wi' her lad gaun at nicht ower the lea, Their keekin', an' kissin', an smirkin', an' glee, Is enough to mak' mad maidens aulder than me.
# The Book of Scottish Song/The Star of Glengary

The Star of Glengary.
The red moon is up o'er the moss-covered mountain; The hour is at hand when I promised to rove With the turf-cutter's daughter by Logan's fair water, And tell her how truly her Donald can love! I ken there's the miller, wi' plenty o' siller, Would fain win a glance frae her beautiful e'e, But my ain bonnie Mary—the star of Glengary— Keeps a' her sweet smiles an' saft kisses for me!
'Tis lang since we first trod the Highlands the-gither, Twa frolicksome bairns gaily starting the deer, When I ca'd her my life—my bonnie wee wife— And ne'er knew sic joy as when Mary was near; And still she's the blossom I wear in my bosom— A blossom I'll cherish an' wear till I dee, For my ain bonnie Mary—the star o' Glengary! She's health, an' she's wealth, an' she's a' good to me!