Areen007/new_data · Datasets at Hugging Face

messages listlengths 2 2	images images listlengths 1 1
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "TALL nettles cover up, as they have done\nThese many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough\nLong worn out, and the roller made of stone:\nOnly the elm butt tops the nettles now.\n\nThis corner of the farmyard I like most:\nAs well as any bloom upon a flower\nI like the dust on the nettles, never lost\nExcept to prove the sweetness of a shower.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "“Mother dear, may I go downtown\nInstead of out to play,\nAnd march the streets of Birmingham\nIn a Freedom March today?”\n\n“No, baby, no, you may not go,\nFor the dogs are fierce and wild,\nAnd clubs and hoses, guns and jails\nAren’t good for a little child.”\n\n“But, mother, I won’t be alone.\nOther children will go with me,\nAnd march the streets of Birmingham\nTo make our country free.”\n\n“No, baby, no, you may not go,\nFor I fear those guns will fire.\nBut you may go to church instead\nAnd sing in the children’s choir.”\n\nShe has combed and brushed her night-dark hair,\nAnd bathed rose petal sweet,\nAnd drawn white gloves on her small brown hands,\nAnd white shoes on her feet.\n\nThe mother smiled to know her child\nWas in the sacred place,\nBut that smile was the last smile\nTo come upon her face.\n\nFor when she heard the explosion,\nHer eyes grew wet and wild.\nShe raced through the streets of Birmingham\nCalling for her child.\n\nShe clawed through bits of glass and brick,\nThen lifted out a shoe.\n“O, here’s the shoe my baby wore,\nBut, baby, where are you?”", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "a man who had fallen among thieves\nlay by the roadside on his back\ndressed in fifteenthrate ideas\nwearing a round jeer for a hat\n\nfate per a somewhat more than less \nemancipated evening\nhad in return for consciousness\nendowed him with a changeless grin\n\nwhereon a dozen staunch and leal\ncitizens did graze at pause\nthen fired by hypercivic zeal \nsought newer pastures or because\n\nswaddled with a frozen brook\nof pinkest vomit out of eyes\nwhich noticed nobody he looked\nas if he did not care to rise\n\none hand did nothing on the vest\nits wideflung friend clenched weakly dirt\nwhile the mute trouserfly \nconfessed a button solemnly inert.\n\nBrushing from whom the stiffened puke\ni put him all into my arms\nand staggered banged with terror through\na million billion trillion stars.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "As when the hunt by holt and field\nDrives on with horn and strife,\nHunger of hopeless things pursues\nOur spirits throughout life.\nThe sea's roar fills us aching full\nOf objectless desire—\nThe sea's roar, and the white moon-shine,\nAnd the reddening of the fire.\nWho talks to me of reason now?\nIt would be more delight\nTo have died in Cleopatra's arms\nThan be alive to-night.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;\nTaking me back down the vista of years, till I see\nA child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings\nAnd pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.\n\nIn spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song\nBetrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong\nTo the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside\nAnd hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.\n\nSo now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour\nWith the great black piano appassionato. The glamour\nOf childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast\nDown in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Is there, for honest poverty,\nThat hings his head, an' a' that?\nThe coward slave, we pass him by,\nWe dare be poor for a' that!\nFor a' that, an' a' that,\nOur toils obscure, an' a' that;\nThe rank is but the guinea's stamp;\nThe man's the gowd for a' that,\nWhat tho' on hamely fare we dine,\nWear hoddin-gray, an' a' that;\nGie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,\nA man's a man for a' that.\nFor a' that, an' a' that,\nTheir tinsel show an' a' that;\nThe honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,\nIs king o' men for a' that.\nYe see yon birkie, ca'd a lord\nWha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;\nTho' hundreds worship at his word,\nHe's but a coof for a' that:\nFor a' that, an' a' that,\nHis riband, star, an' a' that,\nThe man o' independent mind,\nHe looks and laughs at a' that.\nA prince can mak a belted knight,\nA marquis, duke, an' a' that;\nBut an honest man's aboon his might,\nGuid faith he mauna fa' that!\nFor a' that, an' a' that,\nTheir dignities, an' a' that,\nThe pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,\nAre higher rank than a' that.\nThen let us pray that come it may,\nAs come it will for a' that,\nThat sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,\nMay bear the gree, an' a' that.\nFor a' that, an' a' that,\nIt's coming yet, for a' that,\nThat man to man, the warld o'er,\nShall brothers be for a' that.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "I make truce with you, Walt Whitman—\nI have detested you long enough.\nI come to you as a grown child\nWho has had a pig-headed father;\nI am old enough now to make friends.\nIt was you that broke the new wood,\nNow is a time for carving.\nWe have one sap and one root—\nLet there be commerce between us.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "No cloud, no relique of the sunken day\nDistinguishes the West, no long thin slip\nOf sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.\nCome, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!\nYou see the glimmer of the stream beneath,\nBut hear no murmuring: it flows silently,\nO'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,\nA balmy night! and though the stars be dim,\nYet let us think upon the vernal showers\nThat gladden the green earth, and we shall find\nA pleasure in the dimness of the stars.\nAnd hark! the Nightingale begins its song,\n\"Most musical, most melancholy\" bird!\nA melancholy bird! Oh! idle thought!\nIn nature there is nothing melancholy.\nBut some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced\nWith the remembrance of a grievous wrong,\nOr slow distemper, or neglected love,\n(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself,\nAnd made all gentle sounds tell back the tale\nOf his own sorrow) he, and such as he,\nFirst named these notes a melancholy strain.\nAnd many a poet echoes the conceit;\nPoet who hath been building up the rhyme\nWhen he had better far have stretched his limbs\nBeside a brook in mossy forest-dell,\nBy sun or moon-light, to the influxes\nOf shapes and sounds and shifting elements\nSurrendering his whole spirit, of his song\nAnd of his fame forgetful! so his fame\nShould share in Nature's immortality,\nA venerable thing! and so his song\nShould make all Nature lovelier, and itself\nBe loved like Nature! But 'twill not be so;\nAnd youths and maidens most poetical,\nWho lose the deepening twilights of the spring\nIn ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still\nFull of meek sympathy must heave their sighs\nO'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.\n My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt\nA different lore; we may not thus profane\nNature's sweet voices, always full of love\nAnd joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale\nThat crowds, and hurries, and precipitates\nWith fast thick warble his delicious notes,\nAs he were fearful that an April night\nWould be too short for him to utter forth\nHis love-chant, and disburthen his full soul\nOf all its music!\n And I know a grove\nOf large extent, hard by a castle huge,\nWhich the great lord inhabits not; and so\nThis grove is wild with tangling underwood,\nAnd the trim walks are broken up, and grass,\nThin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.\nBut never elsewhere in one place I knew\nSo many nightingales; and far and near,\nIn wood and thicket, over the wide grove,\nThey answer and provoke each other's song,\nWith skirmish and capricious passagings,\nAnd murmurs musical and swift jug jug,\nAnd one low piping sound more sweet than all---\nStirring the air with such a harmony,\nThat should you close your eyes, you might almost\nForget it was not day! On moon-lit bushes,\nWhose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed,\nYou may perchance behold them on the twigs,\nTheir bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,\nGlistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade\nLights up her love-torch.\n A most gentle Maid,\nWho dwelleth in her hospitable home\nHard by the castle, and at latest eve\n(Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate\nTo something more than Nature in the grove)\nGlides through the pathways; she knows all their notes,\nThat gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space,\nWhat time the moon was lost behind a cloud,\nHath heard a pause of silence; till the moon\nEmerging, hath awakened earth and sky\nWith one sensation, and these wakeful birds\nHave all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,\nAs if some sudden gale had swept at once\nA hundred airy harps! And she hath watched\nMany a nightingale perched giddily\nOn blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze,\nAnd to that motion tune his wanton song\nLike tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.\n Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,\nAnd you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!\nWe have been loitering long and pleasantly,\nAnd now for our dear homes.---That strain again!\nFull fain it would delay me! My dear babe,\nWho, capable of no articulate sound,\nMars all things with his imitative lisp,\nHow he would place his hand beside his ear,\nHis little hand, the small forefinger up,\nAnd bid us listen! And I deem it wise\nTo make him Nature's play-mate. He knows well\nThe evening-star! and once, when he awoke\nIn most distressful mood (some inward pain\nHad made up that strange thing, an infant's dream---)\nI hurried with him to our orchard-plot,\nAnd he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once,\nSuspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,\nWhile his fair eyes, that swam with undropped tears,\nDid glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well!---\nIt is a father's tale: But if that Heaven\nShould give me life, his childhood shall grow up\nFamiliar with these songs, that with the night\nHe may associate joy.---Once more, farewell,\nSweet Nightingale! Once more, my friends! farewell.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Baa, baa, black sheep\nHave you any wool?\nYes sir, yes sir, three bags full.\nOne for the master,\nAnd one for the dame,\nAnd one for the little boy\nWho lives down the lane.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Farm boys wild to couple\nWith anything with soft-wooded trees With mounds of earth mounds Of pinestraw will keep themselves off Animals by legends of their own: In the hay-tunnel dark\nAnd dung of barns, they will Say I have heard tell\nThat in a museum in Atlanta Way back in a corner somewhere There’s this thing that’s only half Sheep like a woolly baby\nPickled in alcohol because Those things can’t live. his eyes\nAre open but you can’t stand to look I heard from somebody who ...\nBut this is now almost all Gone. The boys have taken Their own true wives in the city,\nThe sheep are safe in the west hill\nPasture but we who were born there\nStill are not sure. Are we,\nBecause we remember, remembered\nIn the terrible dust of museums?\nMerely with his eyes, the sheep-child may Be saying saying\nI am here, in my father’s house.\nI who am half of your world, came deeply\nTo my mother in the long grass\nOf the west pasture, where she stood like moonlight\nListening for foxes. It was something like love\nFrom another world that seized her\nFrom behind, and she gave, not lifting her head Out of dew, without ever looking, her best\nSelf to that great need. Turned loose, she dipped her face Farther into the chill of the earth, and in a sound Of sobbing of something stumbling\nAway, began, as she must do,\nTo carry me. I woke, dying,\nIn the summer sun of the hillside, with my eyes\nFar more than human. I saw for a blazing moment The great grassy world from both sides,\nMan and beast in the round of their need,\nAnd the hill wind stirred in my wool,\nMy hoof and my hand clasped each other,\nI ate my one meal\nOf milk, and died\nStaring. From dark grass I came straight\nTo my father’s house, whose dust\nWhirls up in the halls for no reason\nWhen no one comes piling deep in a hellish mild corner, And, through my immortal waters,\nI meet the sun’s grains eye\nTo eye, and they fail at my closet of glass.\nDead, I am most surely living\nIn the minds of farm boys: I am he who drives\nThem like wolves from the hound bitch and calf\nAnd from the chaste ewe in the wind.\nThey go into woods into bean fields they go\nDeep into their known right hands. Dreaming of me, They groan they wait they suffer\nThemselves, they marry, they raise their kind.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "TALL nettles cover up, as they have done\nThese many springs, the rusty harrow, the plough\nLong worn out, and the roller made of stone:\nOnly the elm butt tops the nettles now.\n\nThis corner of the farmyard I like most:\nAs well as any bloom upon a flower\nI like the dust on the nettles, never lost\nExcept to prove the sweetness of a shower.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "“Mother dear, may I go downtown\nInstead of out to play,\nAnd march the streets of Birmingham\nIn a Freedom March today?”\n\n“No, baby, no, you may not go,\nFor the dogs are fierce and wild,\nAnd clubs and hoses, guns and jails\nAren’t good for a little child.”\n\n“But, mother, I won’t be alone.\nOther children will go with me,\nAnd march the streets of Birmingham\nTo make our country free.”\n\n“No, baby, no, you may not go,\nFor I fear those guns will fire.\nBut you may go to church instead\nAnd sing in the children’s choir.”\n\nShe has combed and brushed her night-dark hair,\nAnd bathed rose petal sweet,\nAnd drawn white gloves on her small brown hands,\nAnd white shoes on her feet.\n\nThe mother smiled to know her child\nWas in the sacred place,\nBut that smile was the last smile\nTo come upon her face.\n\nFor when she heard the explosion,\nHer eyes grew wet and wild.\nShe raced through the streets of Birmingham\nCalling for her child.\n\nShe clawed through bits of glass and brick,\nThen lifted out a shoe.\n“O, here’s the shoe my baby wore,\nBut, baby, where are you?”", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "a man who had fallen among thieves\nlay by the roadside on his back\ndressed in fifteenthrate ideas\nwearing a round jeer for a hat\n\nfate per a somewhat more than less \nemancipated evening\nhad in return for consciousness\nendowed him with a changeless grin\n\nwhereon a dozen staunch and leal\ncitizens did graze at pause\nthen fired by hypercivic zeal \nsought newer pastures or because\n\nswaddled with a frozen brook\nof pinkest vomit out of eyes\nwhich noticed nobody he looked\nas if he did not care to rise\n\none hand did nothing on the vest\nits wideflung friend clenched weakly dirt\nwhile the mute trouserfly \nconfessed a button solemnly inert.\n\nBrushing from whom the stiffened puke\ni put him all into my arms\nand staggered banged with terror through\na million billion trillion stars.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "As when the hunt by holt and field\nDrives on with horn and strife,\nHunger of hopeless things pursues\nOur spirits throughout life.\nThe sea's roar fills us aching full\nOf objectless desire—\nThe sea's roar, and the white moon-shine,\nAnd the reddening of the fire.\nWho talks to me of reason now?\nIt would be more delight\nTo have died in Cleopatra's arms\nThan be alive to-night.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;\nTaking me back down the vista of years, till I see\nA child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings\nAnd pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.\n\nIn spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song\nBetrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong\nTo the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside\nAnd hymns in the cosy parlour, the tinkling piano our guide.\n\nSo now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamour\nWith the great black piano appassionato. The glamour\nOf childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast\nDown in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Is there, for honest poverty,\nThat hings his head, an' a' that?\nThe coward slave, we pass him by,\nWe dare be poor for a' that!\nFor a' that, an' a' that,\nOur toils obscure, an' a' that;\nThe rank is but the guinea's stamp;\nThe man's the gowd for a' that,\nWhat tho' on hamely fare we dine,\nWear hoddin-gray, an' a' that;\nGie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,\nA man's a man for a' that.\nFor a' that, an' a' that,\nTheir tinsel show an' a' that;\nThe honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,\nIs king o' men for a' that.\nYe see yon birkie, ca'd a lord\nWha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;\nTho' hundreds worship at his word,\nHe's but a coof for a' that:\nFor a' that, an' a' that,\nHis riband, star, an' a' that,\nThe man o' independent mind,\nHe looks and laughs at a' that.\nA prince can mak a belted knight,\nA marquis, duke, an' a' that;\nBut an honest man's aboon his might,\nGuid faith he mauna fa' that!\nFor a' that, an' a' that,\nTheir dignities, an' a' that,\nThe pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,\nAre higher rank than a' that.\nThen let us pray that come it may,\nAs come it will for a' that,\nThat sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,\nMay bear the gree, an' a' that.\nFor a' that, an' a' that,\nIt's coming yet, for a' that,\nThat man to man, the warld o'er,\nShall brothers be for a' that.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "I make truce with you, Walt Whitman—\nI have detested you long enough.\nI come to you as a grown child\nWho has had a pig-headed father;\nI am old enough now to make friends.\nIt was you that broke the new wood,\nNow is a time for carving.\nWe have one sap and one root—\nLet there be commerce between us.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "No cloud, no relique of the sunken day\nDistinguishes the West, no long thin slip\nOf sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.\nCome, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!\nYou see the glimmer of the stream beneath,\nBut hear no murmuring: it flows silently,\nO'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,\nA balmy night! and though the stars be dim,\nYet let us think upon the vernal showers\nThat gladden the green earth, and we shall find\nA pleasure in the dimness of the stars.\nAnd hark! the Nightingale begins its song,\n\"Most musical, most melancholy\" bird!\nA melancholy bird! Oh! idle thought!\nIn nature there is nothing melancholy.\nBut some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced\nWith the remembrance of a grievous wrong,\nOr slow distemper, or neglected love,\n(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself,\nAnd made all gentle sounds tell back the tale\nOf his own sorrow) he, and such as he,\nFirst named these notes a melancholy strain.\nAnd many a poet echoes the conceit;\nPoet who hath been building up the rhyme\nWhen he had better far have stretched his limbs\nBeside a brook in mossy forest-dell,\nBy sun or moon-light, to the influxes\nOf shapes and sounds and shifting elements\nSurrendering his whole spirit, of his song\nAnd of his fame forgetful! so his fame\nShould share in Nature's immortality,\nA venerable thing! and so his song\nShould make all Nature lovelier, and itself\nBe loved like Nature! But 'twill not be so;\nAnd youths and maidens most poetical,\nWho lose the deepening twilights of the spring\nIn ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still\nFull of meek sympathy must heave their sighs\nO'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.\n My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt\nA different lore; we may not thus profane\nNature's sweet voices, always full of love\nAnd joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale\nThat crowds, and hurries, and precipitates\nWith fast thick warble his delicious notes,\nAs he were fearful that an April night\nWould be too short for him to utter forth\nHis love-chant, and disburthen his full soul\nOf all its music!\n And I know a grove\nOf large extent, hard by a castle huge,\nWhich the great lord inhabits not; and so\nThis grove is wild with tangling underwood,\nAnd the trim walks are broken up, and grass,\nThin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.\nBut never elsewhere in one place I knew\nSo many nightingales; and far and near,\nIn wood and thicket, over the wide grove,\nThey answer and provoke each other's song,\nWith skirmish and capricious passagings,\nAnd murmurs musical and swift jug jug,\nAnd one low piping sound more sweet than all---\nStirring the air with such a harmony,\nThat should you close your eyes, you might almost\nForget it was not day! On moon-lit bushes,\nWhose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed,\nYou may perchance behold them on the twigs,\nTheir bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,\nGlistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade\nLights up her love-torch.\n A most gentle Maid,\nWho dwelleth in her hospitable home\nHard by the castle, and at latest eve\n(Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate\nTo something more than Nature in the grove)\nGlides through the pathways; she knows all their notes,\nThat gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space,\nWhat time the moon was lost behind a cloud,\nHath heard a pause of silence; till the moon\nEmerging, hath awakened earth and sky\nWith one sensation, and these wakeful birds\nHave all burst forth in choral minstrelsy,\nAs if some sudden gale had swept at once\nA hundred airy harps! And she hath watched\nMany a nightingale perched giddily\nOn blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze,\nAnd to that motion tune his wanton song\nLike tipsy joy that reels with tossing head.\n Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,\nAnd you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!\nWe have been loitering long and pleasantly,\nAnd now for our dear homes.---That strain again!\nFull fain it would delay me! My dear babe,\nWho, capable of no articulate sound,\nMars all things with his imitative lisp,\nHow he would place his hand beside his ear,\nHis little hand, the small forefinger up,\nAnd bid us listen! And I deem it wise\nTo make him Nature's play-mate. He knows well\nThe evening-star! and once, when he awoke\nIn most distressful mood (some inward pain\nHad made up that strange thing, an infant's dream---)\nI hurried with him to our orchard-plot,\nAnd he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once,\nSuspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,\nWhile his fair eyes, that swam with undropped tears,\nDid glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well!---\nIt is a father's tale: But if that Heaven\nShould give me life, his childhood shall grow up\nFamiliar with these songs, that with the night\nHe may associate joy.---Once more, farewell,\nSweet Nightingale! Once more, my friends! farewell.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Baa, baa, black sheep\nHave you any wool?\nYes sir, yes sir, three bags full.\nOne for the master,\nAnd one for the dame,\nAnd one for the little boy\nWho lives down the lane.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.The poem should transport the reader into the world of the image, painting a vivid picture through words.", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Farm boys wild to couple\nWith anything with soft-wooded trees With mounds of earth mounds Of pinestraw will keep themselves off Animals by legends of their own: In the hay-tunnel dark\nAnd dung of barns, they will Say I have heard tell\nThat in a museum in Atlanta Way back in a corner somewhere There’s this thing that’s only half Sheep like a woolly baby\nPickled in alcohol because Those things can’t live. his eyes\nAre open but you can’t stand to look I heard from somebody who ...\nBut this is now almost all Gone. The boys have taken Their own true wives in the city,\nThe sheep are safe in the west hill\nPasture but we who were born there\nStill are not sure. Are we,\nBecause we remember, remembered\nIn the terrible dust of museums?\nMerely with his eyes, the sheep-child may Be saying saying\nI am here, in my father’s house.\nI who am half of your world, came deeply\nTo my mother in the long grass\nOf the west pasture, where she stood like moonlight\nListening for foxes. It was something like love\nFrom another world that seized her\nFrom behind, and she gave, not lifting her head Out of dew, without ever looking, her best\nSelf to that great need. Turned loose, she dipped her face Farther into the chill of the earth, and in a sound Of sobbing of something stumbling\nAway, began, as she must do,\nTo carry me. I woke, dying,\nIn the summer sun of the hillside, with my eyes\nFar more than human. I saw for a blazing moment The great grassy world from both sides,\nMan and beast in the round of their need,\nAnd the hill wind stirred in my wool,\nMy hoof and my hand clasped each other,\nI ate my one meal\nOf milk, and died\nStaring. From dark grass I came straight\nTo my father’s house, whose dust\nWhirls up in the halls for no reason\nWhen no one comes piling deep in a hellish mild corner, And, through my immortal waters,\nI meet the sun’s grains eye\nTo eye, and they fail at my closet of glass.\nDead, I am most surely living\nIn the minds of farm boys: I am he who drives\nThem like wolves from the hound bitch and calf\nAnd from the chaste ewe in the wind.\nThey go into woods into bean fields they go\nDeep into their known right hands. Dreaming of me, They groan they wait they suffer\nThemselves, they marry, they raise their kind.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]