OpenLLM-France/wikimedia huggingface dataset:
# The Singers' companion, a choice selection of fashionable songs/They say my love is dead

THEY SAY MY LOVE IS DEAD.
RECITATIVE.
List to her notes of woe that float upon the air,
Like the soft murmur of the distant wave! Mark her, lorn maiden! twined amid her raven hair, The violet, long withered, and meek daisy mingle there; With weeds and wild flowers rudely o'er her strewn. Poor heart-distracted one! thy grief is like mine own: Having nor end nor home-but in the grave!
AIR.
They say, my love is dead-- Gone to his green turf bed;
But the bonnie moon shines red where he's laid: He gave me flowers three, Down, beside yon willow-tree, And he'll eome again to me ere they fade. O! yes, he will come, &c.
The glow-worm hath a light For the fairy queen of night, But my true love's shroud so white lighteth me; 'Tis whiter than the snow That sparkles on the bough Where sweet Robin singeth now merrily. Where sweet, &c.
'Tis Hallow-mass' e'en,
And around the holly green The fairy elves are seen tripping light; And thither I must be, Ere their queen has left the lea; For she comes to marry me to my own true love.
She comes, &c.
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 Singing, Soaring Lark

English-language translations of Das singende springende Löweneckerchen include:
* "The Lady and the Lion" (1823), translated by Edgar Taylor and David Jardine, in German Popular Stories
* "The Singing, Soaring Lark", translated by Margaret Raine Hunt, in Grimm's Household Tales, Volume 2 (1884)
* "The Lady and the Lion", translated by Alice Lucas, illustrated by Arthur Rackham, in The Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm (1909)
* "Lily and the Lion", translated by Edgar Taylor, David Jardine and Marian Edwardes, illustrated by Robert Anning Bell, in Grimm's Household Tales (1912)
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 Story of Mary MacLane/March 9

IT IS astonishing to me how very many contemptible, petty vanities are lodged in the crevices of my genius. My genius itself is one grand good vanity—but it is not contemptible. And even those little vanities—though they are contemptible, I do not hold them in contempt by any means. I smile involuntarily at their absurdness sometimes, but I know well that they have their function.
They are peculiarly of my mind, my humanness, and they are useful therein. When this mind stretches out its hand for things and finds only wilderness and Nothingness all about it, and draws the hand back empty, then it can only turn back—like my soul—to itself. And it finds these innumerable little vanities to quiet it and help it. My soul has no vanity, and it has nothing, nothing to quiet it. My soul is wearing itself out, ​eating itself away. These vanities are a miserable substitute for the rose-colored treasures that it sees a great way off and even imagines in its folly that it may have, if it continues to reach after them. Yet the vanities are something. They prevent my erratic, analytical mind from finding a great Nothing when it turns back upon itself.
If I were not so unceasingly engrossed with my sense of misery and loneliness my mind would produce beautiful, wonderful logic. I am a genius—a genius—a genius. Even after all this you may not realize that I am a genius. It is a hard thing to show. But, for myself, I feel it. It is enough for me that I feel it.
I am not a genius because I am foreign to everything in the world, nor because I am intense, nor because I suffer. One may be all of these and yet not have this marvelous perceptive sense. My genius is because of nothing. It was born in me as germs of evil ​were born in me. And mine is a genius that has been given to no one else. The genius itself enables me to be thoroughly convinced of this.
It is hopeless, never-ending loneliness!
My ancestors in their Highlands—some of them—were endowed with second sight. My genius is not in the least like second sight. That savors of the supernatural, the mysterious. My genius is a sound, sure, earthly sense, with no suggestion of mystery or occultism. It is an inner sense that enables me to feel and know things that I could not possibly put into thought, much less into words. It makes me know and analyze with deadly minuteness every keen, tiny damnation in my terrible lonely life. It is a mirror that shows me myself and something in myself in a merciless brilliant light, and the sight at once sickens and maddens me and fills me with an unnamed woe. It is something unspeakably dreadful. ​The sight for the time deadens all thought in my mind. It freezes my reason and intellect. Logic can not come to my aid. I can only feel and know the thing and it analyzes itself before my eyes.
I am alone with this—alone, alone, alone! There is no pitiful hand extended from the heights—there is no human being—ah, there is Nothing.
How can I bear it! Oh, I ask you—how can I bear it!
# The Story of Mexico

* related portals: Mexico.
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
The Story of the Nations
THE
Story of Mexico
by
SUSAN HALE
NEW YORK G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN 1889
# The Story of Mary MacLane/March 28

HATRED, after all, is the easiest thing of all to bear.
If you have been forgotten by the one who must have made you, and if you have been left alone of human beings all your life—all your nineteen years—then, when at last you see some one looking toward you with beautiful eyes, and extending to you a beautiful hand, and showing you a beautiful heart wherein is just a little of beautiful sympathy for you—for you—oh, that is harder than anything to bear. Harder than the loneliness and the bitterness—and the tears are nearer and nearer.
But one would be hurt often, often for the sake of the beautiful things. Yes, one would gladly be hurt long and often.
I shall never forget how it was with me when I first saw the beautiful eyes ​of my dearest anemone lady when they were looking gently—at me—and the beautiful hand, and the beautiful heart.
The awakening of my racked soul is hardly more heavily laden with passion and pain. I shall never forget.
Though I feel away from her also, she is the only one out of all to look gently at me.
Let me writhe and falter with pain; let me go mad—but oh, worldful of people—for the love of your God—give me out of this seething darkness only one beautiful human hand to touch mine with love, one beautiful human heart to know the aching sad loneliness of mine, one beautiful, human soul to mingle with mine in long, long Rest.
Oh, for a human being, my soul wails—a human being to love me!
Oh, to know—just once—what it is to be loved!
Nineteen years without one faint shadow of love is mouldy, crumbling age—is gray with the dust of centuries.
​How long have I lived?
How long must I live?
I am shrieking at you, cold, stupid world.
Oh, the long, long waiting!
The millions of human beings!
I am a human being and there is no one—no one—no one.
Who can know this that has not felt it? You do not know—you can not know.
Surely I do not ask too much. But whether or not it is too much I can not go through the years without it—oh, I can not!
You have lived your nineteen years, fine world, and you have lived through some after years.
But in your nineteen years there was some one to love you.
It is that that counts.
Since you have had that some one, in your nineteen years, can you understand what life is to me—me—in my loneliness?
​My wailing, waiting soul burns with but one desire: to be loved—oh, to be loved.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/March 29

I AM making the world my confessor in this Portrayal. My mind is fairly bursting with egotism and pain, and in writing this I find a merciful outlet. I have become fond of my Portrayal. Often I lay my forehead and my lips caressingly upon the pages.
And I wish to let you know that there is in existence a genius—an unhappy genius, a genius starving in Montana in the barrenness—but still a genius. I am a creature the like of which you have never before happened upon. You have never suspected that there is such a person. I know that there is not such another. As I said in the beginning, the world contains not my parallel.
I am a fantasy—an absurdity—a genius!
Had I been one of the beasts that ​perish I had been likewise a fantasy. I think I should have been a small animal composite of a pig, a leopard, and a skunk: an animal that I fancy would be uncanny to look upon but admirable for a pet.
However, I am not one of the beasts that perish.
I am human.
That is another remarkable point.
I have heard persons say they can hardly believe I am quite human.
I am the most human creature that ever was placed on the earth. The geniuses are always more human than the herd. Almost a perfection of humanness is reached in me. This by itself makes me extraordinary. The rarest thing in the world, I find, is the quality of humanness.
Humanity and humaneness are much less rare.
"It is a brave thing to understand something of what we see." Indeed it is. An exceeding brave thing. The ​one who said that had surely gone out on the highways and byways and found how little he could understand.
To understand oneself is not so brave a thing. To go in among the hidden gray shadows of the deep things is a fool's errand. It is not from choice that I do it. No one carries a mill-stone around her neck from choice. When I see what is among the hidden gray shadows—when I see a vision of Myself—I am seized with a strange, sick terror.
A fool's errand—but one that I must need go—and for that matter I myself am a fool.
Yet to know oneself well is a rare fine art.
I analyze myself now. I analyzed myself when I was three years old.
The only difference is that at the age of three I was not aware that I analyzed. It is true, that is a great difference. Now I know that I am analyzing ​at nineteen, and now I know that I analyzed at three.
And at the age of nineteen I know that I am a genius.
A genius who does not know that he is a genius is no genius. A drunken man might stagger up to a piano and accidentally play music that vibrates to the soul—that touches upon the mysteries. But he does not know his power, and he is no genius, though men awaken and go mad therefrom.
I know that I am a genius more than any genius that has lived.
I have a feeling that the world will never know this.
And as I think of it I wonder if angels are not weeping somewhere because of it.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/March 25

ONE of the remarkable points about my life is that it is so completely, hopelessly alone—a lonely, lonely life. This book of mine contains but one character—myself.
There is also the Devil—as a possibility.
And there is also the anemone lady—my dearest beloved—as a memory.
I have read books that were written to portray but one character, and there were various people brought in to help in the portraying. But my one friend is gone, and there is no person who enters into my inner life in the very least. I am always alone. I might mingle with people intimately every hour of my life—still I should be alone.
Always alone—alone.
Not even a God to worship.
How do I bear this? How do I get through the days and days?
​And, oh, when it all comes over me, what frightful rage—what long agony of my breaking heart—what utter woe!
When the stars shine down upon me with cold hatred; when miles and miles of barrenness stretch out around me and envelop me in their weary, weary Nothingness; when the wind blows over me like the breath of a vicious giant; when the ugly, ugly sun radiates centuries of hard, heavy bitterness around me from its stinging rays; when the sky maddens me with its cold, careless blue; when the rivers that are flowing over the earth send echoes to me of their hateful voices; when I hear wild geese honking in bitter wailing melody; when bristling edges of jagged rocks cut sharply into my tired life; when drops of rain fall on me and pierce me like steel points; when the voices in the air shriek little-minded malice in my ears; when the green of Nature is the green of spitefulness and cruelty; when the red, red of the setting sun burns ​and consumes me with its horrid feverish effervescence; when I feel the all-hatred of the Universe for its poor little earth-bugs: then it is that I approach nearest to Rest.
The softnesses are my Unrest.
I do not want those bitter things.
But I must have them if I would rest.
I want the softnesses and I want Rest!
Oh, dear faint soul, it is hard—hard for us.
We are sick with loneliness.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/March 31

ALL DAY long this heart-sickening song of Mariana has been reeling and swimming in my brain. I awoke with it early in the morning, and it is still with me now in the lateness. I wondered at times during the day why that very gentle and devilishly persistent refrain did not drive me insane or send me into convulsions. I tried vainly to fix my mind on a book. I began reading "Mill on the Floss," but that weird poem was not to be foiled. It bewitched my brain. Now, as I write, I hear twenty voices chanting in a sad minor key—twenty voices that fill my brain with sound to the bursting point. "He cometh not—he ​cometh not—he cometh not." "That I were dead"—"I am aweary, aweary,—"that I were dead—that I were dead." "He cometh not—that I were dead."
It is maddening in that it is set sublimely to the music of my own life.
Now that I have written it I can hope that it may leave me. If it follows me through the night, and if I awake to another day of it the cords of my overworked mind will surely break.
But let me thank the kind Devil.
It is leaving me now!
It is as if tons were lifted from my brain.
# The Story of Mary MacLane/March 26

NOW and again I have torturing glimpses of a Paradise. And I feel my soul in its pain every moment of my life. Otherwise, how gladly would I deny the existence of a soul and a life to come!
For my soul is beset with Nothingness, and the Paradise that shows itself is not for me.
# The Siege of London (Posteritas)

THE
SIEGE OF LONDON.
BY "POSTERITAS."
LONDON: WYMAN & SONS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN'S-INN FIELDS. 1885.
WYMAN AND SONS, PRINTERS, GREAT QUEEN STREET, LINCOLN'S-INN FIELDS, LONDON, W.C.
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 Siege of London (James)

* "The Siege of London" in The Cornhill Magazine 47 (277–278) (January–February 1883):
** "The Siege of London" in The Cornhill Magazine 47 (277) (January 1883): 1–34.
** "The Siege of London" in The Cornhill Magazine 47 (278) (February 1883): 225–256.
    — First publication in any form.
* "The Siege of London" in The Siege of London, The Pension Beaurepas, and The Point of View (Boston: James R. Osgood & Co., 1883): 1–136.
    — First American book edition.
* "The Siege of London" in The Siege of London, Madame De Mauves (London: Macmillan & Co., 1883): 3–104.
    — First English book edition; volume 11 of the "Collective Edition of 1883".
* "The Siege of London" in The Siege of London, The Point of View, A Passionate Pilgrim (Leipzig: Bernhard Tauchnitz, 1884): 11–128.
    — First Continental book edition.
* "The Siege of London" in The Novels and Tales of Henry James 14: 146–271.
    — The "New York Edition".
* "The Siege of London" in Lady Barbarina, The Siege of London; An International Episode, and Other Tales: 129–241.
    — Volume 19 of The Novels and Stories of Henry James, the first posthumous collection of James' works; uses the "New York Edition" text.
# The Time Machine

"The Time Machine is a novel by H. G. Wells, first published in 1895. It is generally credited with the introduction of the concept of time travel using a vehicle that allows an operator to travel purposefully and selectively."Warning: template has been deprecated.
The story that would eventually become H. G. Wells's The Time Machine arguably originated with Wells's The Chronic Argonauts, published in 1888 as a three-part serial in The Science Schools Journal. The story was subsequently heavily revised, and in 1894 it was again serialised, this time in The National Observer under the title The Time Traveller's Story. The conclusion was not published, however, because the editor of the National Observer moved to The New Review, and arranged for Wells's story to be published therein, again in serial, under the title The Time Machine. However Wells was required to make substantial changes and additions to the story, so that the The New Review version would not appear to be the same story as that published in the National Observer.
Around the same time, Wells submitted the story to two different publishers. The version sent to Henry Holt & Company in New York, commonly known as the "Holt text" or "American version", was essentially the The New Review version. However the version submitted to William Heinemann in London, commonly known as the "Heinemann text" or "British version", is to a large extent a reversion to the National Observer version. Both submissions were accepted for publication, and went through independent editorial processes. They were published within a few weeks of each other in 1895.
* The Time Machine (The New Review)
* The Time Machine (Heinemann text)
* The Time Machine (Holt text)
* The Time Machine (Atlantic Edition) published in 1924 (pages 1–118)
See also The Grey Man, an excerpt from Chapter XI of the Heinemann text, present in the serialized version but cut from the published book.
# The Time I've Lost in Wooing

    The time I've lost in wooing,
    In watching and pursuing
    The light that lies
    In woman's eyes,
    Has been my heart's undoing.
    Though Wisdom oft has sought me,
    I scorn'd the lore she brought me,
    My only books
    Were woman's looks,
    And folly's all they've taught me.
    Her smile when Beauty granted,
    I hung with gaze enchanted,
    Like him, the sprite,
    Whom maids by night
    Oft meet in glen that's haunted.
    Like him, too, Beauty won me,
    But while her eyes were on me,
    If once their ray
    Was turn'd away,
    Oh! winds could not unrun me.
    And are these follies going?
    And is my proud heart growing
    Too cold or wise
    For brilliant eyes
    Again to set it glowing?
    No, vain, alas! th' endeavour
    From bonds so sweet to sever;
    Poor Wisdom's chance
    Against a glance
    Is now as weak as ever.
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 Tiger

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The Tiger."
* sister projects: 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 Tyger (alternate: The Tiger) by William Blake
* The Tiger, by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
# The Tiger (1863)

variant text in Gilchrist's Blake (1863), volume 2, p. 59.
THE TIGER.
Tiger, Tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Framed thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies Burned that fire within thine eyes? On what wings dared he aspire? What the hand dared seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what art, Could twist the sinews of thy heart? When thy heart began to beat, What dread hand formed thy dread feet?
What the hammer, what the chain, Knit thy strength and forged thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?
# The Temple: Sacred Poems and Private Ejaculations/The H. Scriptures II

II.
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/Telling the Bees

“TELLING THE BEES”
This is the son of the white morning singing, Combing her silken hair's simmer of gold, All of her slenderness wrapped in a gossamer Green of the dawning sky, dear to behold.
“When the lime is in blossom the bees are busy, Summer has come with her honey-sweet mouth; The lime is in bloom and the hive it is silent, Come little bees from the North and the South!
”Gather your store when the red sun is shining, Gather the harvest so that you may feast, The hive is nigh empty, the Queen she is weeping, Come little bees from the West and the East.“
I saw one go in the pale of the dawning, In a fair May-time a-telling the bees, Tapping the hive there she told of men dying, Many a dear name she called to the breeze.
They are coming, the bees, for the time is in blossom; They are coming, the bees, from the West, South, and East; They hum “donas Sasan,” they hum “Sonas Eireann, We gather the honey, prepare for the feast.”
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/Ourselves Alone

OURSELVES ALONE
One morning, when dreaming in deep meditation, I met a sweet colleen a-making her moan. With sighing and sobbing she cried and lamented; “Oh, where is my lost one, and where has he flown?
“My house it is small, and my field is but little, Yet round flew my wheel as I sat in the sun, He crossed the deep sea and went forth for my battle: Oh, has he proved faithless—the fight is not won?”
And then I said: “Kathleen, ah! do you remember When you were a queen, and your castles were strong,
You cried for the love of a cold-hearted stranger, And in your fair island you planted the wrong?
“And oh,” I cried, “Kathleen, I once heard you weeping And sighing and sobbing and making your moan. You sang of a lost one, a dear one, a false one— ‘Oh, gone is my blackbird, and where has he flown?’
“Ah! many came forth to the sound of your crying, And fought down the years for the freedom you pined. How many lie still, in their cold exile sleeping, Who sought in far lands your lost blackbird to find?
“And many are caught in the net of the stranger, And all but forgotten the sound of your name,
For other loves call them to help and to save them: They fell to dishonour—we hold them in shame.
“Oh, why drive me forth from your hearth into exile And into far dangers? Your house is my own. Faithful I serve, as I ever did serve you, Standing together, ourselves—and alone.”
# The Tricolour, Poems of the Irish Revolution/Sixteen Dead Men

SIXTEEN DEAD MEN
Hark! in the still night. Who goes there? “Fifteen dead men” Why do they wait? “Hasten, comrade, death is so fair.” Now comes their Captain through the dim gate.
Sixteen dead men! What on their sword? “A nation's honour proud do they bear.” What on their bent heads? “God's holy word; All of their nation's heart blended in prayer.”
Sixteen dead men! What makes their shroud? “All of their nation's love wraps them around.” Where do their bodies lie, brave and so proud? “Under the gallows-tree in prison ground.”
Sixteen dead men! Where do they go? “To join their regiment, where Sarsfield leads; Wolfe Tone and Emmet, too, well do they know. There shall they bivouac, telling great deeds.”
Sixteen dead men! Shall they return? “Yea, they shall come again, breath of our breath. They on our nation's hearth made old fires burn. Guard her unconquered soul, strong in their death.”