text
string | label
int64 |
|---|---|
upon whose boughs were wicker cages hung,
| 2
|
soft, discontented eyes!
| 0
|
she still must keep the locket to allay
| 2
|
and the rude people rage with ignorant cries
| 0
|
skirting the stream.
| 2
|
"o lord, that didst smother mankind in thy flood,
| 0
|
the silence, and the rain.
| 2
|
is this a time to be cloudy and sad,
| 0
|
blood-dipped arrows, which savages make
| 0
|
i think i'll just call up my wife and tell her
| 2
|
the moon and the stars were anxious
| 0
|
they shaped our future; we but carve their names.
| 2
|
nor the president in his presidency, nor the rich in his great house.
| 3
|
in our embraces we again enfold her,
| 1
|
robe us once more in heaven-aspiring creeds
| 1
|
in the twilight of age all things seem strange and phantasmal,
| 0
|
back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
| 2
|
the very gods arising mid their carven images:
| 2
|
ah! still, methinks, i hear them calling;
| 2
|
a wild and stormy sea;
| 0
|
"sir, ye shall find him, if ye follow up
| 2
|
tis the djinns' wild streaming swarm
| 2
|
how many times we must have met
| 2
|
dark with more clouds than tempests are,
| 0
|
then the smile from her bright eyes faded and a flush came over her cheek
| 3
|
lowly and soft she said it; but spake out louder now:
| 2
|
the sower scatters broad his seed,
| 2
|
and thus each tint or shade which falls,
| 2
|
the dust of half a century lies
| 2
|
above the myriad roofs and spires rise;
| 2
|
and they whispered to each other:
| 2
|
then he stripped the shirt of wampum
| 2
|
at least if so we can, and by the head
| 2
|
here comes the cripple jane!" and by a fountain's side
| 0
|
to me that time did not appeire:
| 2
|
so neighbour'd to him, and yet so unseen
| 2
|
the wondering rabbi sought the temple's gate.
| 2
|
are angel faces, silent and serene,
| 1
|
ef zeke had be'n the bigges' man
| 2
|
and when i bade the dream
| 2
|
and tip with feathers, orange and green,
| 2
|
or at the church, she ever bore herself
| 2
|
how nature to the soul is moored,
| 2
|
"rubadub! rubadub! wake and take the road again,
| 2
|
i do not keer a jot;
| 2
|
swifter was the hunter's rowing,
| 1
|
let the scared dreamer wake to see
| 2
|
(like essence-peddlers) thet'll make folks long to be without 'em,
| 2
|
as if we guessed what hers have been,
| 2
|
which goaded him in his distress
| 0
|
o so many, many, many
| 2
|
lord, remember me!"
| 2
|
far from the woods where, when the sun has set,
| 2
|
abloom by sacred streams
| 1
|
nathless, as hath been often tried,
| 2
|
i feel the road unroll,
| 2
|
and not be nearer therefore to the moon,
| 2
|
forelaid and taken, while he strove in vain
| 0
|
and country eyes, and quiet faces --
| 2
|
some come ridin' in top-buggies wid de w'eels all painted red,
| 2
|
when blighting was nearest.
| 0
|
i can see how you might. but i don't know!
| 2
|
the orchestra had cheered till they were hoarse,
| 3
|
pillars by madness multiplied;
| 0
|
"now the place where the accident occurred----"
| 2
|
a poet in his youth, and the cuckoo-bird
| 2
|
no rest that throbbing slave may ask,
| 0
|
o'er time's delusive tide.
| 0
|
“i’m going to put you on the farm next to it.”
| 2
|
no word for a while spake regin; but he hung his head adown
| 0
|
"he! patron!
| 2
|
three lives, three strides, three foot-prints in the sand;
| 2
|
till they have told their fill, could scarce express
| 2
|
the morning and the evening made his day.
| 2
|
"stella, see that grasshopper
| 2
|
of blooming myrtle and faint lemon-flowers,
| 2
|
let us do our work as well,
| 2
|
we hear our mother call from deeps of time,
| 2
|
of brynhilda's love and the wrath of gudrun.
| 3
|
who digs last year's potato hill?--
| 2
|
those hours the ancient timepiece told,--
| 2
|
would split, for size of me.
| 2
|
in just the dress his century wore;
| 2
|
his song, though very sweet, was low and faint,
| 3
|
then to tell.
| 2
|
my winter sports begin.
| 2
|
envy and calumny and hate and pain,
| 0
|
the play is done,--the curtain drops,
| 2
|
and murmured a strange and solemn air;
| 0
|
the cloud is gone that wove the sandstone,
| 2
|
i see little and large sea-dots, some inhabited, some uninhabited;
| 2
|
time never did assuage;
| 2
|
that saw the cross without the bear.
| 2
|
the deer invites no longer
| 2
|
taught by the sorrows that his age had known
| 0
|
like slippers after shoes.--
| 2
|
and willing grow old
| 2
|
to paris, and you make no sign at all.
| 2
|
from the pulpit read the preacher, "goodman garvin and his wife
| 2
|
even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
| 3
|
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