OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Old-Fashioned

​136 POEMS.
XX.
OLD-FASHIONED.
A RCTURUS is his other name,
I'd rather call him star!
It's so unkind of science
To go and interfere!
I pull a flower from the woods,
A monster with a glass
Computes the stamens in a breath,
And has her in a class.
Whereas I took the butterfly
Aforetime in my hat,
He sits erect in cabinets,
The clover-bells forgot.
What once was heaven, is zenith now.
Where I proposed to go
When time's brief masquerade was done,
Is mapped, and charted too!
What if the poles should frisk about
And stand upon their heads!
I hope I 'm ready for the worst,
Whatever prank betides!
Perhaps the kingdom of Heaven 's changed!
I hope the children there
Won't be new-fashioned when I come,
And laugh at me, and stare!
I hope the father in the skies
Will lift his little girl, -
Old-fashioned, naughty, everything, - Over the stile of pearl!
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Morns like these we parted

​186 POEMS.
                V.
MORNS like these we parted; Noons like these she rose,
Fluttering first, then firmer,
To her fair repose.
Never did she lisp it,
And't was not for me;
She was mute from transport,
I, from agony!
Till the evening, nearing,
One the shutters drew — Quick! a sharper rustling!
And this linnet flew!
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/My Country's Wardrobe

XXIX.
MY COUNTRY’S WARDROBE.
MY country need not change her gown, Her triple suit as sweet As when 't was cut at Lexington, And first pronounced "a fit."
Great Britain disapproves "the stars;" Disparagement discreet, — There 's something in their attitude That taunts her bayonet.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Memorials

XIII.
MEMORIALS.
Death sets a thing significant The eye had hurried by, Except a perished creature Entreat us tenderly
To ponder little workmanships In crayon or in wool, With "This was last her fingers did," Industrious until
The thimble weighed too heavy, The stitches stopped themselves, And then 't was put among the dust Upon the closet shelves.
A book I have, a friend gave, Whose pencil, here and there, Had notched the place that pleased him,— At rest his fingers are.
Now, when I read, I read not, For interrupting tears Obliterate the etchings Too costly for repairs.
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/November

​POEMS. 173
                XLIX.
          NOVEMBER.
BESIDES the autumn poets sing,
A few prosaic days
A little this side of the snow
And that side of the haze.
A few incisive mornings,
A few ascetic eves, — Gone Mr. Bryant's golden-rod,
And Mr. Thomson's sheaves.
Still is the bustle in the brook,
Sealed are the spicy valves;
Mesmeric fingers softly touch
The eyes of many elves.
Perhaps a squirrel may remain,
My sentiments to share.
Grant me, O Lord, a sunny mind,
Thy windy will to bear!
# Poems: Second Series (Dickinson)/Out of the Morning

II.
OUT OF THE MORNING.
WILL there really be a morning?
Is there such a thing as day? Could I see it from the mountains If I were as tall as they?
Has it feet like water-lilies? Has it feathers like a bird? Is it brought from famous countries Of which I have never heard?
Oh, some scholar! Oh, some sailor! Oh, some wise man from the skies! Please to tell a little pilgrim Where the place called morning lies!
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/O'er the wide earth

XII.
O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain, Dwells in the affections and the soul of man A Godhead, like the universal Pan, But more exalted, with a brighter train. And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain, Showered equally on City and on Field, And neither hope nor steadfast promise yield In these usurping times of fear and pain? Such doom awaits us.—Nay, forbid it Heaven! We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws To which the triumph of all good is given, High sacrifice, and labour without pause, Even to the death:—else wherefore should the eye Of man converse with immortality?
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Mark the concentred

X.
Mark the concentred Hazels that enclose Yon old grey Stone, protected from the ray Of noontide suns:—and even the beams that play And glance, while wantonly the rough wind blows, Are seldom free to touch the moss that grows Upon that roof—amid embowering gloom The very image framing of a Tomb, In which some ancient Chieftain finds repose Among the lonely mountains.—Live, ye Trees! And Thou, grey Stone, the pensive likeness keep Of a dark chamber where the Mighty sleep: For more than Fancy to the influence bends When solitary Nature condescends To mimic Time's forlorn humanities.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Milton!-

XIV.
LONDON,
1802.
Milton! thou should'st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altar, sword and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men; Oh! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea; Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on itself did lay.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/O'er-weening Statesmen

XXVII.
1810.
O'erweening Statesmen have full long relied On fleets and armies, and external wealth: But from within proceeds a Nation's health; Which shall not fail, though poor men cleave with pride To the paternal floor; or turn aside, In the thronged City, from the walks of gain, As being all unworthy to detain A Soul by contemplation sanctified. There are who cannot languish in this strife, Spaniards of every rank, by whom the good Of such high course was felt and understood; Who to their Country's cause have bound a life, Ere while by solemn consecration given To labour, and to prayer, to nature, and to heaven.
# Poor Esau repented too late

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
ESAU by John Newton
    Poor Esau repented too late
    That once he his birth-right despised;
    And sold, for a morsel of meat,
    What could not too highly be prized:
    How great was his anguish when told,
    The blessing he sought to obtain,
    Was gone with the birth-right he sold,
    And none could recall it again!
    He stands as a warning to all,
    Wherever the gospel shall come;
    O Hasten and yield to the call,
    While yet for repentance there's room!
    Your season will quickly be past,
    Then hear and obey it today;
    Lest when you seek mercy at last,
    The Savior should frown you away.
    What is it the world can propose?
    A morsel of meat at the best!
    For this are you willing to lose
    A share in the joys of the blest?
    Its pleasures will speedily end,
    Its favor and praise are but breath;
    And what can its profits befriend
    Your soul in the moment of death?
    If Jesus for these you despise,
    And sin to the Savior prefer;
    In vain your entreaties and cries,
    When summoned to stand at his bar:
    How will you his presence abide?
    What anguish will torture your heart?
    The saints all enthroned by his side,
    And you be compelled to depart.
    Too often, dear Savior, have I
    Preferred some poor trifle to thee;
    How is it thou dost not deny
    The blessing and birth-right to me?
    No better than Esau I am,
    Though pardon and heav'n be mine;
    To me belongs nothing but shame,
    The praise and the glory be thine.
# Poor Folk

English-language translations of Бедные люди include:
* Poor Folk (1867), as translated by C. J. Hogarth
* Poor People (1914), as translated by Constance Garnett
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
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/"Blessèd"

"BLESSÈD"
BLESSÈD: so have they named her. With just pride, Deliberate care, and cautious circumstance, The Holy Council have beatified The Maid of Orleans, martyred child of France, Who, at Domrémy's village altar kneeling,— Ignored by friend and foe, Through all her young unsullied spirit feeling The tears of a despairing people flow,— Implored relief; and following the word Which none save she had heard, Delivered France, and crowned her—long ago. Rejoice, Domrémy, 'midst thy bowery green! She was thine own, whom all, at last, would claim— The greatest miracle that Earth hath seen Since out of Nazareth a Saviour came. Lowly as thou (though sheathed in armor bright), Her soul was as the snow— Yea, as the lilies of her banner, white. ​The Church hath blessed her; but man's heart, less slow, Remembering her service and the price Of her dear sacrifice, Gave her the name of blessèd—long ago.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/"In Memory of Jean"

"IN MEMORY OF JEAN"
ALONE, alone in the still, deserted room, He knew that she lay dead—that hope was past, Knew she had left him in her bloom— She, of his joys, the last!
Yet warm and tender as the day's caress, There lingered in his breaking heart the light She wore for him, the loveliness Death's shadow could not blight;
And in the silence feeling her so near— Though wrapped from him in strange oblivion, Longing that life should hold her dear When he, too, should be gone,—
He strengthened for her sake reluctant breath, And put away the dread of waiting years, And wrote the story of her death, And sealed it with his tears. . . .
​Four little months! and then—ah, seemed it long Reft of his treasure, here on earth to bide?— When April sang its full, glad song They laid him at her side.
No partings more! In quiet now they sleep, Forgetful of all griefs that came between; And through his brave, brave love, we keep The memory of "Jean"!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/"Ask What You Will"

"ASK WHAT YOU WILL"
ASK what you will, I must obey your hest! Thus much, my lady-bird, seems manifest To you and me, who well each other know. What you, small tyrant, beg, I must bestow. Come; falter not, but proffer your request!
Is it the flower I wear here on my breast? My favorite nag? The book I love the best? Some dainty gown? Some brooch or necklace? No? Ask what you will!
See how the sun, down-sinking to his rest, Gilds with his glory all the roseate west! I linger on, in life's chill afterglow. Nay; smile, beloved!—like your mother—so! Stay but a moment! Now—my own! my blest! Ask what you will.
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/"So War Has Begun"

"SO WAR HAS BEGUN"
SO war has begun, they say, Well, Spring is here before it; If war takes much away, And leaves us to deplore it,— Yet see! the woody dells once more Are turning green, in spite of war.
On yonder maple tree The misty buds are swelling; Violets, timidly, Peep from their mossy dwelling, And bluebirds, far and near, outpour Their brimming hope, in spite of war.
Rumor, with awful tales Of death and of disaster, May clamor through our vales, But Spring comes hither faster, Humming a tender rune of peace— Breathing of bloom and life's increase.
​Old soldiers still relate How at Resaca's battle,— As if to compensate,— Above the din and rattle Of musketry, continued long, A mockingbird sang rapturous song:
And one who lay near death,— A soldier sorely wounded, Drew less distressful breath, As clear that music sounded, And felt to his tired spirit come The most delightful dreams of home.
Ah, well! we talk of war, But peace is so much kinder, That all our strife is for Is just the hope to find her: And see!—how Spring, with look serene, Is garlanding her halls in green!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/A Cathedral

A CATHEDRAL
ALL SAINTS' DAY IN THE GREAT NORTH WOODS
IT rises by a frozen mere, With nave and transepts of the pines That towering 'mid the snows appear Majestic and sublime; While, with a myriad fair designs Of feathery-tufted tracery, Their tops adorn with silver rime The azure vault's immensity.
Rock-piled, the altar to the East Lies argent-spread; on either hand— Meek servers at the lonely feast— Surpliced and tall the birches stand, Like ghostly acolytes, And through ice-mailèd branches pass, Prismatic from celestial heights, The tints of mediæval glass.
Awed, as in no cathedral raised By human thought, alone, and still, I muse on one who dying praised ​The God of Being, here: On him who welcomed with a will The gift of life, the boon of death,— The while he heard, deep-toned and near,
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/"Poor Love !" Said Life

"POOR LOVE!" SAID LIFE
"POOR love!" said Life, "that hast nor gold, Nor lands, nor other store, I ween; Thy very shelter from the cold Is oft but lowly built and mean." "Nay: though of rushes be my bed, Yet am I rich," Love said.
"But," argued Life, "thrice fond art thou To yield the sovereign gifts of Earth— The victor sword, the laureled brow— For visioned things of little worth!" Love gazed afar with dreamt-lit eyes, And answered, "Nay: but wise."
"Yet, Love," said Life, "what can atone For all the travail of thy years— The yearnings vain, the vigils lone, The pain, the sacrifice, the tears?" Soft as the breath breathed from a rose, The answer came: "Love knows."
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/"Go Not Too Far"

"GO NOT TOO FAR"
GO not too far—too far beyond my gaze, Thou who canst never pass beyond the yearning Which, even as the dark for dawning stays, Awaits thy loved returning!
Go not too far! Howe'er thy fancies roam, Let them come back, wide-circling like the swallow, Lest I, for very need, should try to come— And find I could not follow!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/A Ballad of a Drum

A BALLAD OF A DRUM
THE Austrians at Arcola (The fight had lasted long), The Austrians at Arcola— Some fifty thousand strong— Assailed the bridge whereto the French (A fourth their strength) had come, With menace dire, and murderous fire; Then fled before a drum!
For Estienne at Arcola— Heroic little lad!— Seeing the carnage on the bridge, With soul grown sick and sad, Had sworn that he, at least, would pass Beyond the sanguine tide, And beat his drum, whate'er should come, Upon the farther side.
So Estienne at Arcola— No fear had he to die!— ​With one brave Sergeant, swam the stream, His precious drum held high, And from the river dripping rose Amid the battle's hum, A French refrain, with might and main, To pound upon his drum.
The Austrians at Arcola Seemed fifty thousand strong, But many were the raw recruits Among that mighty throng, Who hearing Frenchmen in the rear, Listened, confused and dumb, Then gave a shout,—"We're hemmed about!" And fled—before a drum!
The courage shown at Arcola By André Estienne— The lesson taught at Arcola Is wholesome now as then. Needs there a moral to the tale? Then read in this its sum: The greatest strength may yield at length, When sounds a hero's drum!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/A Little Minister

A LITTLE MINISTER
FAR up the crag, 'twixt sea and sky, Where winds tempestuous, blowing by, Leave giant boulders swept and bare: Where frequent lightnings fitful flare, And petrels sound their stormy cry,—
I found a bluebell, sweet and shy, Lifting its head complacently, As guarded by the tenderest care— Far up the crag.
And often now, when fear draws nigh, In thought I stand 'twixt sea and sky, And as of old, in my despair, I bless the Power that set it there— That tiny thing with courage high, Far up the crag!
# Poems (Coates 1916)/Volume I/A Little Song

A LITTLE SONG
ROSES are but for a day, Amaranths endure for ever; Joys there be that fade away, Dreams that perish never; But, whate'er the future's holding,— Crown of all, all else enfolding,— Love lives on!
Well they know, who with content Hear his oft-repeated story, How to earthly glooms are lent Reflexes of glory! Rapture's first and final giver, Star of Charon's rayless river,— Love lives on!
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/On the final submission of the Tyrolese

XIII.
ON THE
FINAL SUBMISSION OF THE TYROLESE.
It was a moral end for which they fought; Else how, when mighty Thrones were put to shame, Could they, poor Shepherds, have preserved an aim, A resolution, or enlivening thought? Nor hath that moral good been vainly sought; For in their magnanimity and fame Powers have they left—an impulse—and a claim Which neither can be overturned nor bought. Sleep, Warriors, sleep! among your hills repose! We know that ye, beneath the stern controul Of awful prudence, keep the unvanquished soul. And when, impatient of her guilt and woes Europe breaks forth; then, Shepherds! shall ye rise For perfect triumph o'er your Enemies.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/On the same Event

II.
UPON THE SAME EVENT.
When, far and wide, swift as the beams of morn The tidings passed of servitude repealed, And of that joy which shook the Isthmian Field, The rough Ætolians smiled with bitter scorn. "'Tis known," cried they, "that He, who would adorn His envied temples with the Isthmian Crown, Must either win, through effort of his own, The prize, or be content to see it worn By more deserving brows.—Yet so ye prop, Sons of the Brave who fought at Marathon, Your feeble Spirits. Greece her head hath bowed, As if the wreath of Liberty thereon Would fix itself as smoothly as a cloud, Which, at Jove's will, descends on Pelion's top!"
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/On a celebrated Event in Ancient History

SONNETS
DEDICATED
TO LIBERTY.
PART SECOND.
I.
ON A
CELEBRATED EVENT IN ANCIENT HISTORY.
A Roman Master stands on Grecian ground, And to the Concourse of the Isthmian Games He, by his Herald's voice, aloud proclaims The Liberty of Greece:—the words rebound Until all voices in one voice are drowned; Glad acclamation by which air was rent! And birds, high-flying in the element, Dropped to the earth, astonished at the sound! —A melancholy Echo of that noise Doth sometimes hang on musing Fancy's ear: Ah! that a Conqueror's words should be so dear; Ah! that a boon could shed such rapturous joys! A gift of that which is not to be given By all the blended powers of Earth and Heaven.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/On the same occasion

VI.
COMPOSED AT THE SAME TIME, AND ON THE SAME OCCASION.
I dropped my pen;—and listened to the wind That sang of trees up-torn and vessels tost; —A midnight harmony, and wholly lost To the general sense of men by chains confined Of business, care, or pleasure,—or resigned To timely sleep.—Thought I, the impassioned strain, Which, without aid of numbers, I sustain, Like acceptation from the World will find. Yet some with apprehensive ear shall drink A dirge devoutly breathed o'er sorrows past, And to the attendant promise will give heed, The prophecy,—like that of this wild blast, Which, while it makes the heart with sadness shrink, Tells also of bright calms that shall succeed.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/One might believe

XVIII.
October, 1803.
One might believe that natural miseries Had blasted France, and made of it a land Unfit for Men; and that in one great Band Her Sons were bursting forth, to dwell at ease. But 'tis a chosen soil, where sun and breeze Shed gentle favors; rural works are there; And ordinary business without care; Spot rich in all things that can soothe and please! How piteous then that there should be such dearth Of knowledge; that whole myriads should unite To work against themselves such fell despite: Should come in phrenzy and in drunken mirth, Impatient to put out the only light Of Liberty that yet remains on Earth!
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/On approaching Home

XXXV.
ON APPROACHING HOME
AFTER A TOUR IN SCOTLAND.
1803.
Fly, some kind Spirit, fly to Grasmere Vale! Say that we come, and come by this day's light; Glad tidings!—spread them over field and height; But chiefly let one Cottage hear the tale; There let a mystery of joy prevail, The Kitten frolic with unruly might, And Rover whine, as at a second sight Of near-approaching good that shall not fail;— And from that Infant's face let joy appear; Yea, let our Mary's one Companion Child, That hath her six week's solitude beguiled With intimations manifold and dear, While we have wandered over wood and wild, Smile on his Mother now with bolder cheer.
# Poems (Wordsworth, 1815)/Volume 2/Pelion and Ossa

XXVII.
Pelion and Ossa flourish side by side, Together in imniortal books enrolled: His ancient dower Olympus hath not sold; And that inspiring Hill, which "did divide Into two ample horns his forehead wide," Shines with poetic radiance as of old; While not an English Mountain we behold By the celestial Muses glorified. Yet round our sea-girt shore they rise in crowds: What was the great Parnassus' self to Thee, Mount Skiddaw? In his natural sovereignty Our British Hill is fairer far: He shrouds His double-fronted head in higher clouds, And pours forth streams more sweet than Castaly.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Cupid Drowned

Cupid Drowned.
"Cupid Drowned" (1784-1859), "Cupid Stung" (1779-1852), and "Cupid and My Campasbe" (1558-1606) are three dainty poems recommended by Mrs. Margaret Mooney, of the Albany Teachers' College in her "Foundation Studies in Literature." Children are always delighted with them.
T'other day as I was twining Roses, for a crown to dine in, What, of all things, 'mid the heap, Should I light on, fast asleep, But the little desperate elf, The tiny traitor, Love, himself! By the wings I picked him up Like a bee, and in a cup Of my wine I plunged and sank him, Then what d'ye think I did?—I drank him. Faith, I thought him dead. Not he! There he lives with tenfold glee; And now this moment with his wings I feel him tickling my heart-strings.
Leigh Hunt.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Cupid and My Campasbe

Cupid and My Campasbe.
Cupid and my Campasbe played At cards for kisses. Cupid paid. He stakes his quiver, bow and arrows, His mother's doves and team of sparrows. Loses them, too; then down he throws The coral of his lips, the rose Growing on his cheek, but none knows how; With them the crystal of his brow, And then the dimple of his chin. All these did my Campasbe win. At last he set her both his eyes; She won and Cupid blind did rise. Oh, Love, hath she done this to thee! What shall, alas, become of me!
John Lyly.
# Poems That Every Child Should Know/Driving Home the Cows

Driving Home the Cows.
Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river lane; One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow bars again.
Under the willows and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go: Two already were lying dead, Under the feet of the trampling foe.
​But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the footpath damp.
Across the clover, and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim: Though the dew was on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat's flitting startled him.
Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; And now, when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home.
For news had come to the lonely farm That three were lying where two had lain; And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm Could never lean on a son's again.
The summer day grew cool and late: He went for the cows when the work was done But down the lane, as he opened the gate, He saw them coming one by one:
Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind; Cropping the buttercups out of the grass, But who was it following close behind?
Loosely swung in the idle air The empty sleeve of army blue; And worn and pale, from the crisping hair, Looked out a face that the father knew.
​For close-barred prisons will sometimes yawn, And yield their dead unto life again; And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn, In golden glory at last may wane.
The great tears sprang to their meeting eyes; For the heart must speak when the lips are dumb, And under the silent evening skies Together they followed the cattle home.
Kate Putnam Osgood.