Areen007/summary_pix · 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 title of the poem is Speaking Tree by Joy Harjo the poet is Joy Harjo", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "I had a beautiful dream I was dancing with a tree.\n—Sandra Cisneros\nSome things on this earth are unspeakable:\nGenealogy of the broken—\nA shy wind threading leaves after a massacre,\nOr the smell of coffee and no one there—\nSome humans say trees are not sentient beings,\nBut they do not understand poetry—\nNor can they hear the singing of trees when they are fed by\nWind, or water music—\nOr hear their cries of anguish when they are broken and bereft—\nNow I am a woman longing to be a tree, planted in a moist, dark earth\nBetween sunrise and sunset—\nI cannot walk through all realms—\nI carry a yearning I cannot bear alone in the dark—\nWhat shall I do with all this heartache?\nThe deepest-rooted dream of a tree is to walk\nEven just a little ways, from the place next to the doorway—\nTo the edge of the river of life, and drink—\nI have heard trees talking, long after the sun has gone down:\nImagine what would it be like to dance close together\nIn this land of water and knowledge. . .\nTo drink deep what is undrinkable.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Hunter Trials by John Betjeman the poet is John Betjeman", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "It's awfully bad luck on Diana\nHer ponies have swallowed their bits\nShe fished down their throats with a spanner\nAnd frightened them all into fits\n\nSo now she's attempting to borrow\nDo lend her some bits Mummy do\nI'll lend her my own for tomorrow\nBut today I'll be wanting them too\n\nJust look at Prunella on Guzzle\nThe wizardest pony on earth\nWhy doesn't she slacken his muzzle\nAnd tighten the breech in his girth\n\nI say Mummy there's Mrs. Geyser\nAnd doesn't she look pretty sick\nI bet it's because Mona Lisa\nWas hit on the hock with a brick\n\nMiss Blewitt says Monica threw it\nBut Monica says it was Joan\nAnd Joan's very thick with Miss Blewitt\nSo Monica's sulking alone\n\nAnd Margaret failed in her paces\nHer withers got tied in a noose\nSo her coronets caught in the traces\nAnd now all her fetlocks are loose\n\nOh it's me now I'm terribly nervous\nI wonder if Smudges will shy\nShe's practically certain to swerve us\nHer Pelham is over one eye\n\nOh wasn't it naughty of Smudges\nOh Mummy I'm sick with disgust\nShe threw me in front of the judges\nAnd my silly old collarbone's bust", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Dance by William Carlos Williams the poet is William Carlos Williams", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "In Brueghel’s great picture, The Kermess,\nthe dancers go round, they go round and\naround, the squeal and the blare and the\ntweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and fiddles\ntipping their bellies (round as the thick—\nsided glasses whose wash they impound)\ntheir hips and their bellies off balance\nto turn them. Kicking and rolling\nabout the Fair Grounds, swinging their butts, those\nshanks must be sound to bear up under such\nrollicking measures, prance as they dance\nin Brueghel’s great picture, The Kermess.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Fin de Fête by Charlotte Mew the poet is Charlotte Mew", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Sweetheart, for such a day\nOne mustn’t grudge the score;\nHere, then, it’s all to pay,\nIt’s Good-night at the door.\nGood-night and good dreams to you,—\nDo you remember the picture-book thieves\nWho left two children sleeping in a wood the long night through,\nAnd how the birds came down and covered them with leaves?\nSo you and I should have slept,—But now,\nOh, what a lonely head!\nWith just the shadow of a waving bough\nIn the moonlight over your bed.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is good times by Lucille Clifton the poet is Lucille Clifton", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "My Daddy has paid the rent\nand the insurance man is gone\nand the lights is back on\nand my uncle Brud has hit\nfor one dollar straight\nand they is good times\ngood times\ngood times\n\nMy Mama has made bread\nand Grampaw has come\nand everybody is drunk\nand dancing in the kitchen\nand singing in the kitchen\nOh these is good times\ngood times\ngood times\n\noh children think about the\ngood times…", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Part V: The Rime of The Ancient Mariner by S.T. Coleridge the poet is Samuel Taylor Coleridge", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,\nBeloved from pole to pole!\nTo Mary Queen the praise be given!\nShe sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,\nThat slid into my soul.\n\nThe silly buckets on the deck,\nThat had so long remained,\nI dreamt that they were filled with dew;\nAnd when I awoke, it rained.\n\nMy lips were wet, my throat was cold,\nMy garments all were dank;\nSure I had drunken in my dreams,\nAnd still my body drank.\n\nI moved, and could not feel my limbs:\nI was so light—almost\nI thought that I had died in sleep,\nAnd was a blessed ghost.\n\nAnd soon I heard a roaring wind:\nIt did not come anear;\nBut with its sound it shook the sails,\nThat were so thin and sere.\n\nThe upper air burst into life!\nAnd a hundred fire-flags sheen,\nTo and fro they were hurried about!\nAnd to and fro, and in and out,\nThe wan stars danced between.\n\nAnd the coming wind did roar more loud,\nAnd the sails did sigh like sedge,\nAnd the rain poured down from one black cloud;\nThe Moon was at its edge.\n\nThe thick black cloud was cleft, and still\nThe Moon was at its side:\nLike waters shot from some high crag,\nThe lightning fell with never a jag,\nA river steep and wide.\n\nThe loud wind never reached the ship,\nYet now the ship moved on!\nBeneath the lightning and the Moon\nThe dead men gave a groan.\n\nThey groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,\nNor spake, nor moved their eyes;\nIt had been strange, even in a dream,\nTo have seen those dead men rise.\n\nThe helmsman steered, the ship moved on;\nYet never a breeze up-blew;\nThe mariners all 'gan work the ropes,\nWhere they were wont to do;\nThey raised their limbs like lifeless tools—\nWe were a ghastly crew.\n\nThe body of my brother's son\nStood by me, knee to knee:\nThe body and I pulled at one rope,\nBut he said nought to me.\n\n'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!'\nBe calm, thou Wedding-Guest!\n'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,\nWhich to their corses came again,\nBut a troop of spirits blest:\n\nFor when it dawned—they dropped their arms,\nAnd clustered round the mast;\nSweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,\nAnd from their bodies passed.\n\nAround, around, flew each sweet sound,\nThen darted to the Sun;\nSlowly the sounds came back again,\nNow mixed, now one by one.\n\nSometimes a-dropping from the sky\nI heard the sky-lark sing;\nSometimes all little birds that are,\nHow they seemed to fill the sea and air\nWith their sweet jargoning!\n\nAnd now 'twas like all instruments,\nNow like a lonely flute;\nAnd now it is an angel's song,\nThat makes the heavens be mute.\n\nIt ceased; yet still the sails made on\nA pleasant noise till noon,\nA noise like of a hidden brook\nIn the leafy month of June,\nThat to the sleeping woods all night\nSingeth a quiet tune.\n\nTill noon we quietly sailed on,\nYet never a breeze did breathe:\nSlowly and smoothly went the ship,\nMoved onward from beneath.\n\nUnder the keel nine fathom deep,\nFrom the land of mist and snow,\nThe spirit slid: and it was he\nThat made the ship to go.\nThe sails at noon left off their tune,\nAnd the ship stood still also.\n\nThe Sun, right up above the mast,\nHad fixed her to the ocean:\nBut in a minute she 'gan stir,\nWith a short uneasy motion—\nBackwards and forwards half her length\nWith a short uneasy motion.\n\nThen like a pawing horse let go,\nShe made a sudden bound:\nIt flung the blood into my head,\nAnd I fell down in a swound.\n\nHow long in that same fit I lay,\nI have not to declare;\nBut ere my living life returned,\nI heard and in my soul discerned\nTwo voices in the air.\n\n'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man?\nBy him who died on cross,\nWith his cruel bow he laid full low\nThe harmless Albatross.\n\nThe spirit who bideth by himself\nIn the land of mist and snow,\nHe loved the bird that loved the man\nWho shot him with his bow.'\n\nThe other was a softer voice,\nAs soft as honey-dew:\nQuoth he, 'The man hath penance done,\nAnd penance more will do.'", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Vision by May Theilgaard Watts the poet is May Theilgaard Watts", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "To-day there have been lovely things\nI never saw before:\nSunlight through a jar of marmalade;\nA blue gate;\nA rainbow\nIn soapsuds on dishwater;\nCandlelight on butter;\nThe crinkled smile of a little girl\nWho had new shoes with tassels;\nA chickadee on a thorn-apple;\nEmpurpled mud under a willow,\nWhere white geese slept;\nWhite ruffled curtains sifting moonlight\nOn the scrubbed kitchen floor;\nThe under side of a white-oak leaf\nRuts in the road at sunset;\nAn egg yolk in a blue bowl.\n\nMy love kissed my eyes last night.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Joy by Stuart Kestenbaum the poet is Stuart Kestenbaum", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "The asters shake from stem to flower\nwaiting for the monarchs to alight.\n\nEvery butterfly knows that the end\nis different from the beginning\n\nand that it is always a part\nof a longer story, in which we are always\n\ntransformed. When it's time to fly,\nyou know how, just the way you knew\n\nhow to breathe, just the way the air\nknew to find its way into your lungs,\n\nthe way the geese know when to depart,\nthe way their wings know how to\n\nspeak to the wind, a partnership of feather\nand glide, lifting into the blue dream.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is 29 April 1989 by Sujata Bhatt the poet is Sujata Bhatt", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "She’s three-months-old now,\nasleep at last for the afternoon.\nI’ve got some time to myself again\nbut I don’t know what to do.\nOutside everything is greyish green and soggy\nwith endless Bremen-Spring drizzle.\nI make a large pot of Assam tea\nand search through the books\nin my room, shift through my papers.\nI’m not looking for anything, really,\njust touching my favourite books.\nI don’t even know what I’m thinking,\nbut there’s a rich round fullness\nin the air\nlike living inside Beethoven’s piano\non a day when he was\nparticularly energetic.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Clear Night by Charles Wright the poet is Charles Wright", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.\nMoon-fingers lay down their same routine\nOn the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.\nBird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.\nI want to be bruised by God.\nI want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.\nI want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed. I want to be entered and picked clean.\nAnd the wind says “What?” to me.\nAnd the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me.\nAnd the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark. And the gears notch and the engines wheel.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Anorexic by Eavan Boland the poet is Eavan Boland", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Flesh is heretic.\nMy body is a witch.\nI am burning it.\n\nYes I am torching\nher curves and paps and wiles.\nThey scorch in my self denials.\n\nHow she meshed my head\nin the half-truths\nof her fevers\n\ntill I renounced\nmilk and honey\nand the taste of lunch.\n\nI vomited\nher hungers.\nNow the bitch is burning.\n\nI am starved and curveless.\nI am skin and bone.\nShe has learned her lesson.\n\nThin as a rib\nI turn in sleep.\nMy dreams probe\n\na claustrophobia\na sensuous enclosure.\nHow warm it was and wide\n\nonce by a warm drum,\nonce by the song of his breath\nand in his sleeping side.\n\nOnly a little more,\nonly a few more days\nsinless, foodless,\n\nI will slip\nback into him again\nas if I had never been away.\n\nCaged so\nI will grow\nangular and holy\n\npast pain,\nkeeping his heart\nsuch company\n\nas will make me forget\nin a small space\nthe fall\n\ninto forked dark,\ninto python needs\nheaving to hips and breasts\nand lips and heat\nand sweat and fat and greed.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Gathering the Bones Together by Gregory Orr the poet is Gregory Orr", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "for Peter Orr\nWhen all the rooms of the house\nfill with smoke, it’s not enough\nto say an angel is sleeping on the chimney.\na night in the barn\nThe deer carcass hangs from a rafter.\nWrapped in blankets, a boy keeps watch\nfrom a pile of loose hay. Then he sleeps\nand dreams about a death that is coming:\nInside him, there are small bones\nscattered in a field among burdocks and dead grass.\nHe will spend his life walking there,\ngathering the bones together.\nPigeons rustle in the eaves.\nAt his feet, the German shepherd\nsnaps its jaws in its sleep.\nA father and his four sons\nrun down a slope toward\na deer they just killed.\nThe father and two sons carry\nrifles. They laugh, jostle,\nand chatter together.\nA gun goes off\nand the youngest brother\nfalls to the ground.\nA boy with a rifle\nstands beside him,\nscreaming.\nI crouch in the corner of my room,\nstaring into the glass well\nof my hands; far down\nI see him drowning in air.\nOutside, leaves shaped like mouths\nmake a black pool\nunder a tree. Snails glide\nthere, little death-swans.\nsmoke\nSomething has covered the chimney\nand the whole house fills with smoke.\nI go outside and look up at the roof,\nbut I can’t see anything.\nI go back inside. Everyone weeps,\nwalking from room to room.\nTheir eyes ache. This smoke\nturns people into shadows.\nEven after it is gone\nand the tears are gone,\nwe will smell it in pillows\nwhen we lie down to sleep.\nHe lives in a house of black glass.\nSometimes I visit him, and we talk.\nMy father says he is dead,\nbut what does that mean?\nLast night I found a child\nsleeping on a nest of bones.\nHe had a red, leaf-shaped\nscar on his cheek.\nI lifted him up\nand carried him with me,\nthough I didn’t know where I was going.\nthe journey\nEach night, I knelt on a marble slab\nand scrubbed at the blood.\nI scrubbed for years and still it was there.\nBut tonight the bones in my feet\nbegin to burn. I stand up\nand start walking, and the slab\nappears under my feet with each step,\na white road only as long as your body.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]
[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Our revels now are ended by William Shakespeare the poet is William Shakespeare", "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 title of the poem is Ballad of Birmingham by Dudley Randall the poet is Dudley Randall", "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 title of the poem is Piano by D.H. Lawrence the poet is D.H. Lawrence", "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 title of the poem is The Nightingale by Samuel Taylor Coleridge the poet is Samuel Taylor Coleridge", "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 title of the poem is Baa, Baa, Black Sheep the poet is A List of Popular Nursery Rhymes", "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 title of the poem is Speaking Tree by Joy Harjo the poet is Joy Harjo", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "I had a beautiful dream I was dancing with a tree.\n—Sandra Cisneros\nSome things on this earth are unspeakable:\nGenealogy of the broken—\nA shy wind threading leaves after a massacre,\nOr the smell of coffee and no one there—\nSome humans say trees are not sentient beings,\nBut they do not understand poetry—\nNor can they hear the singing of trees when they are fed by\nWind, or water music—\nOr hear their cries of anguish when they are broken and bereft—\nNow I am a woman longing to be a tree, planted in a moist, dark earth\nBetween sunrise and sunset—\nI cannot walk through all realms—\nI carry a yearning I cannot bear alone in the dark—\nWhat shall I do with all this heartache?\nThe deepest-rooted dream of a tree is to walk\nEven just a little ways, from the place next to the doorway—\nTo the edge of the river of life, and drink—\nI have heard trees talking, long after the sun has gone down:\nImagine what would it be like to dance close together\nIn this land of water and knowledge. . .\nTo drink deep what is undrinkable.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Hunter Trials by John Betjeman the poet is John Betjeman", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "It's awfully bad luck on Diana\nHer ponies have swallowed their bits\nShe fished down their throats with a spanner\nAnd frightened them all into fits\n\nSo now she's attempting to borrow\nDo lend her some bits Mummy do\nI'll lend her my own for tomorrow\nBut today I'll be wanting them too\n\nJust look at Prunella on Guzzle\nThe wizardest pony on earth\nWhy doesn't she slacken his muzzle\nAnd tighten the breech in his girth\n\nI say Mummy there's Mrs. Geyser\nAnd doesn't she look pretty sick\nI bet it's because Mona Lisa\nWas hit on the hock with a brick\n\nMiss Blewitt says Monica threw it\nBut Monica says it was Joan\nAnd Joan's very thick with Miss Blewitt\nSo Monica's sulking alone\n\nAnd Margaret failed in her paces\nHer withers got tied in a noose\nSo her coronets caught in the traces\nAnd now all her fetlocks are loose\n\nOh it's me now I'm terribly nervous\nI wonder if Smudges will shy\nShe's practically certain to swerve us\nHer Pelham is over one eye\n\nOh wasn't it naughty of Smudges\nOh Mummy I'm sick with disgust\nShe threw me in front of the judges\nAnd my silly old collarbone's bust", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is The Dance by William Carlos Williams the poet is William Carlos Williams", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "In Brueghel’s great picture, The Kermess,\nthe dancers go round, they go round and\naround, the squeal and the blare and the\ntweedle of bagpipes, a bugle and fiddles\ntipping their bellies (round as the thick—\nsided glasses whose wash they impound)\ntheir hips and their bellies off balance\nto turn them. Kicking and rolling\nabout the Fair Grounds, swinging their butts, those\nshanks must be sound to bear up under such\nrollicking measures, prance as they dance\nin Brueghel’s great picture, The Kermess.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Fin de Fête by Charlotte Mew the poet is Charlotte Mew", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Sweetheart, for such a day\nOne mustn’t grudge the score;\nHere, then, it’s all to pay,\nIt’s Good-night at the door.\nGood-night and good dreams to you,—\nDo you remember the picture-book thieves\nWho left two children sleeping in a wood the long night through,\nAnd how the birds came down and covered them with leaves?\nSo you and I should have slept,—But now,\nOh, what a lonely head!\nWith just the shadow of a waving bough\nIn the moonlight over your bed.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is good times by Lucille Clifton the poet is Lucille Clifton", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "My Daddy has paid the rent\nand the insurance man is gone\nand the lights is back on\nand my uncle Brud has hit\nfor one dollar straight\nand they is good times\ngood times\ngood times\n\nMy Mama has made bread\nand Grampaw has come\nand everybody is drunk\nand dancing in the kitchen\nand singing in the kitchen\nOh these is good times\ngood times\ngood times\n\noh children think about the\ngood times…", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Part V: The Rime of The Ancient Mariner by S.T. Coleridge the poet is Samuel Taylor Coleridge", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,\nBeloved from pole to pole!\nTo Mary Queen the praise be given!\nShe sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,\nThat slid into my soul.\n\nThe silly buckets on the deck,\nThat had so long remained,\nI dreamt that they were filled with dew;\nAnd when I awoke, it rained.\n\nMy lips were wet, my throat was cold,\nMy garments all were dank;\nSure I had drunken in my dreams,\nAnd still my body drank.\n\nI moved, and could not feel my limbs:\nI was so light—almost\nI thought that I had died in sleep,\nAnd was a blessed ghost.\n\nAnd soon I heard a roaring wind:\nIt did not come anear;\nBut with its sound it shook the sails,\nThat were so thin and sere.\n\nThe upper air burst into life!\nAnd a hundred fire-flags sheen,\nTo and fro they were hurried about!\nAnd to and fro, and in and out,\nThe wan stars danced between.\n\nAnd the coming wind did roar more loud,\nAnd the sails did sigh like sedge,\nAnd the rain poured down from one black cloud;\nThe Moon was at its edge.\n\nThe thick black cloud was cleft, and still\nThe Moon was at its side:\nLike waters shot from some high crag,\nThe lightning fell with never a jag,\nA river steep and wide.\n\nThe loud wind never reached the ship,\nYet now the ship moved on!\nBeneath the lightning and the Moon\nThe dead men gave a groan.\n\nThey groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,\nNor spake, nor moved their eyes;\nIt had been strange, even in a dream,\nTo have seen those dead men rise.\n\nThe helmsman steered, the ship moved on;\nYet never a breeze up-blew;\nThe mariners all 'gan work the ropes,\nWhere they were wont to do;\nThey raised their limbs like lifeless tools—\nWe were a ghastly crew.\n\nThe body of my brother's son\nStood by me, knee to knee:\nThe body and I pulled at one rope,\nBut he said nought to me.\n\n'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!'\nBe calm, thou Wedding-Guest!\n'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,\nWhich to their corses came again,\nBut a troop of spirits blest:\n\nFor when it dawned—they dropped their arms,\nAnd clustered round the mast;\nSweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,\nAnd from their bodies passed.\n\nAround, around, flew each sweet sound,\nThen darted to the Sun;\nSlowly the sounds came back again,\nNow mixed, now one by one.\n\nSometimes a-dropping from the sky\nI heard the sky-lark sing;\nSometimes all little birds that are,\nHow they seemed to fill the sea and air\nWith their sweet jargoning!\n\nAnd now 'twas like all instruments,\nNow like a lonely flute;\nAnd now it is an angel's song,\nThat makes the heavens be mute.\n\nIt ceased; yet still the sails made on\nA pleasant noise till noon,\nA noise like of a hidden brook\nIn the leafy month of June,\nThat to the sleeping woods all night\nSingeth a quiet tune.\n\nTill noon we quietly sailed on,\nYet never a breeze did breathe:\nSlowly and smoothly went the ship,\nMoved onward from beneath.\n\nUnder the keel nine fathom deep,\nFrom the land of mist and snow,\nThe spirit slid: and it was he\nThat made the ship to go.\nThe sails at noon left off their tune,\nAnd the ship stood still also.\n\nThe Sun, right up above the mast,\nHad fixed her to the ocean:\nBut in a minute she 'gan stir,\nWith a short uneasy motion—\nBackwards and forwards half her length\nWith a short uneasy motion.\n\nThen like a pawing horse let go,\nShe made a sudden bound:\nIt flung the blood into my head,\nAnd I fell down in a swound.\n\nHow long in that same fit I lay,\nI have not to declare;\nBut ere my living life returned,\nI heard and in my soul discerned\nTwo voices in the air.\n\n'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man?\nBy him who died on cross,\nWith his cruel bow he laid full low\nThe harmless Albatross.\n\nThe spirit who bideth by himself\nIn the land of mist and snow,\nHe loved the bird that loved the man\nWho shot him with his bow.'\n\nThe other was a softer voice,\nAs soft as honey-dew:\nQuoth he, 'The man hath penance done,\nAnd penance more will do.'", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Vision by May Theilgaard Watts the poet is May Theilgaard Watts", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "To-day there have been lovely things\nI never saw before:\nSunlight through a jar of marmalade;\nA blue gate;\nA rainbow\nIn soapsuds on dishwater;\nCandlelight on butter;\nThe crinkled smile of a little girl\nWho had new shoes with tassels;\nA chickadee on a thorn-apple;\nEmpurpled mud under a willow,\nWhere white geese slept;\nWhite ruffled curtains sifting moonlight\nOn the scrubbed kitchen floor;\nThe under side of a white-oak leaf\nRuts in the road at sunset;\nAn egg yolk in a blue bowl.\n\nMy love kissed my eyes last night.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Joy by Stuart Kestenbaum the poet is Stuart Kestenbaum", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "The asters shake from stem to flower\nwaiting for the monarchs to alight.\n\nEvery butterfly knows that the end\nis different from the beginning\n\nand that it is always a part\nof a longer story, in which we are always\n\ntransformed. When it's time to fly,\nyou know how, just the way you knew\n\nhow to breathe, just the way the air\nknew to find its way into your lungs,\n\nthe way the geese know when to depart,\nthe way their wings know how to\n\nspeak to the wind, a partnership of feather\nand glide, lifting into the blue dream.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is 29 April 1989 by Sujata Bhatt the poet is Sujata Bhatt", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "She’s three-months-old now,\nasleep at last for the afternoon.\nI’ve got some time to myself again\nbut I don’t know what to do.\nOutside everything is greyish green and soggy\nwith endless Bremen-Spring drizzle.\nI make a large pot of Assam tea\nand search through the books\nin my room, shift through my papers.\nI’m not looking for anything, really,\njust touching my favourite books.\nI don’t even know what I’m thinking,\nbut there’s a rich round fullness\nin the air\nlike living inside Beethoven’s piano\non a day when he was\nparticularly energetic.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Clear Night by Charles Wright the poet is Charles Wright", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Clear night, thumb-top of a moon, a back-lit sky.\nMoon-fingers lay down their same routine\nOn the side deck and the threshold, the white keys and the black keys.\nBird hush and bird song. A cassia flower falls.\nI want to be bruised by God.\nI want to be strung up in a strong light and singled out.\nI want to be stretched, like music wrung from a dropped seed. I want to be entered and picked clean.\nAnd the wind says “What?” to me.\nAnd the castor beans, with their little earrings of death, say “What?” to me.\nAnd the stars start out on their cold slide through the dark. And the gears notch and the engines wheel.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Anorexic by Eavan Boland the poet is Eavan Boland", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Flesh is heretic.\nMy body is a witch.\nI am burning it.\n\nYes I am torching\nher curves and paps and wiles.\nThey scorch in my self denials.\n\nHow she meshed my head\nin the half-truths\nof her fevers\n\ntill I renounced\nmilk and honey\nand the taste of lunch.\n\nI vomited\nher hungers.\nNow the bitch is burning.\n\nI am starved and curveless.\nI am skin and bone.\nShe has learned her lesson.\n\nThin as a rib\nI turn in sleep.\nMy dreams probe\n\na claustrophobia\na sensuous enclosure.\nHow warm it was and wide\n\nonce by a warm drum,\nonce by the song of his breath\nand in his sleeping side.\n\nOnly a little more,\nonly a few more days\nsinless, foodless,\n\nI will slip\nback into him again\nas if I had never been away.\n\nCaged so\nI will grow\nangular and holy\n\npast pain,\nkeeping his heart\nsuch company\n\nas will make me forget\nin a small space\nthe fall\n\ninto forked dark,\ninto python needs\nheaving to hips and breasts\nand lips and heat\nand sweat and fat and greed.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Gathering the Bones Together by Gregory Orr the poet is Gregory Orr", "type": "text" }, { "index": 0, "text": null, "type": "image" } ], "role": "user" }, { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "for Peter Orr\nWhen all the rooms of the house\nfill with smoke, it’s not enough\nto say an angel is sleeping on the chimney.\na night in the barn\nThe deer carcass hangs from a rafter.\nWrapped in blankets, a boy keeps watch\nfrom a pile of loose hay. Then he sleeps\nand dreams about a death that is coming:\nInside him, there are small bones\nscattered in a field among burdocks and dead grass.\nHe will spend his life walking there,\ngathering the bones together.\nPigeons rustle in the eaves.\nAt his feet, the German shepherd\nsnaps its jaws in its sleep.\nA father and his four sons\nrun down a slope toward\na deer they just killed.\nThe father and two sons carry\nrifles. They laugh, jostle,\nand chatter together.\nA gun goes off\nand the youngest brother\nfalls to the ground.\nA boy with a rifle\nstands beside him,\nscreaming.\nI crouch in the corner of my room,\nstaring into the glass well\nof my hands; far down\nI see him drowning in air.\nOutside, leaves shaped like mouths\nmake a black pool\nunder a tree. Snails glide\nthere, little death-swans.\nsmoke\nSomething has covered the chimney\nand the whole house fills with smoke.\nI go outside and look up at the roof,\nbut I can’t see anything.\nI go back inside. Everyone weeps,\nwalking from room to room.\nTheir eyes ache. This smoke\nturns people into shadows.\nEven after it is gone\nand the tears are gone,\nwe will smell it in pillows\nwhen we lie down to sleep.\nHe lives in a house of black glass.\nSometimes I visit him, and we talk.\nMy father says he is dead,\nbut what does that mean?\nLast night I found a child\nsleeping on a nest of bones.\nHe had a red, leaf-shaped\nscar on his cheek.\nI lifted him up\nand carried him with me,\nthough I didn’t know where I was going.\nthe journey\nEach night, I knelt on a marble slab\nand scrubbed at the blood.\nI scrubbed for years and still it was there.\nBut tonight the bones in my feet\nbegin to burn. I stand up\nand start walking, and the slab\nappears under my feet with each step,\na white road only as long as your body.", "type": "text" } ], "role": "assistant" } ]

[ { "content": [ { "index": null, "text": "Compose a vivid and evocative poem that captures the essence of the given image.the title of the poem is Our revels now are ended by William Shakespeare the poet is William Shakespeare", "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 title of the poem is Ballad of Birmingham by Dudley Randall the poet is Dudley Randall", "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 title of the poem is Piano by D.H. Lawrence the poet is D.H. Lawrence", "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 title of the poem is The Nightingale by Samuel Taylor Coleridge the poet is Samuel Taylor Coleridge", "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 title of the poem is Baa, Baa, Black Sheep the poet is A List of Popular Nursery Rhymes", "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" } ]