DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Come Into The Garde, Maud
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune:
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lordlover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewelprint of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
Come Home
by Pamela S. Vining, (J. C. Yule)

Come home! come home! O loved and lost, we sigh
Thus, ever, while the weary days go by,
And bring thee not. We miss thy bright, young face,
Thy bounding step, thy form of girlish grace,
Thy pleasant, tuneful voice, - 
We miss thee when the dewy evening hours
Come with their coolness to our garden, bowers, - 
We miss thee when the warbler's tuneful lay
Welcomes the rising glories of the day
And all glad things rejoice!
Come home! - the vine that climbs our cottage eaves,
Hath a low murmur 'mid its glossy leaves
When the south wind sweeps by, that seems to be
Too deeply laden with sad thoughts of thee - 
Of thee, our absent one! - 
The roses blossom, and their beauties die,
And the sweet violet opes its pensive eye
By thee unseen; and from the old, beech tree
Thy robin pours his song unheard by thee,
Dally at set of sun!
Dearest, come home! Thy harp neglected lies,
Breathing no more its wonted melodies;
Thy favourite books, unopened, in their case,
Just as thy hands arranged them, keep their place,
And vacant is thy seat
Beside the hearth. At the still hour of prayer
Thou com'st no more with quiet, reverent air;
And when, around the social board, each face
Brings its warm welcome, there's one vacant place - 
One smile we may not meet.
Come home! - thy home was never wont to be
A place where clouds might rest; yet, wanting thee,
All pleasant scenes have dull and tasteless grown,
And shadows lower-shadows, erewhile unknown
Of ever-deepening gloom.
The halls where erst thy happy childhood played,
The pleasant garden by thy fair hands made,
The bower thy sunny presence made so fair,
Are all unchanged, - yet grief is everywhere; - 
Dear one, come home!
Come home? - come home? - alas, what have I said?
Beyond the stars, beloved, thy feet have sped!
No more to press these garden paths with mine,
Or walk beside my own at day's decline - 
No more - no more to come
To these old summer haunts! But I shall stay
A little while; and then, at fall of day,
I, too, like thee, shall sleep, and wake to see
Thy Lord and mine, and so shall ever be
With Him and thee at home!
Apotheosis.
by Emily Elizabeth Dickinson

Come slowly, Eden!
Lips unused to thee,
Bashful, sip thy jasmines,
As the fainting bee,
Reaching late his flower,
Round her chamber hums,
Counts his nectars -- enters,
And is lost in balms!
Come Near
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Come near to me, I need Thy glorious presence.
Through the dense darkness of this troubled hour
Shine on my soul, and fill it with the essence
Of Thy pervading and uplifting power.
Come near, come near to me!
Come nearer yet, I have no strength to reach Thee;
My soul is like a bird with broken wings.
Lean down from Thy fair height of peace, and teach me
The balm Thy touch to mortal bruises brings.
Lean down, O God, lean down!
Come near, and yet if those eternal places
Hold greater tasks to occupy Thy hands,
Send Thy blest angels whose celestial faces
Smile sometimes on us from the spirit lands.
Send one, send one to me!
I must have help.    I am so weak and broken
I cannot help myself.    I know not how
That moral force of which so much is spoken
Will not sustain or fortify me now.
I must, I must have help!
Some outside aid, some strength from spirit Sources,
We all must have in hours like this, or die.
To one, or all of those mysterious Forces
Which men call God, I lift my voice and cry,
Come near, come near to me!
The Welcome
by Thomas Osborne Davis

Come in the evening, or come in the morning;
Come when you 're look'd for, or come without warning:
Kisses and welcome you 'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I 'll adore you!
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, 'True lovers don't sever!'
I 'll pull you sweet flowers, to wear if you choose them,
Or, after you've kiss'd them, they 'll lie on my bosom;
I 'll fetch from the mountain its breeze to inspire you;
I 'll fetch from my fancy a tale that won't tire you.
Oh! your step's like the rain to the summer-vex'd farmer,
Or sabre and shield to a knight without armor;
I 'll sing you sweet songs till the stars rise above me,
Then, wandering, I 'll wish you in silence to love me.
We 'll look through the trees at the cliff and the eyrie;
We 'll tread round the rath on the track of the fairy;
We 'll look on the stars, and we 'll list to the river,
Till you ask of your darling what gift you can give her:
Oh! she 'll whisper you 'Love, as unchangeably beaming,
And trust, when in secret, most tunefully streaming;
Till the starlight of heaven above us shall quiver,
As our souls flow in one down eternity's river.'
So come in the evening, or come in the morning;
Come when you 're looked for, or come without warning:
Kisses and welcome you 'll find here before you,
And the oftener you come here the more I 'll adore you!
Light is my heart since the day we were plighted;
Red is my cheek that they told me was blighted;
The green of the trees looks far greener than ever,
And the linnets are singing, 'True lovers don't sever!'
The Ballad.
by H. P. Nichols

"Come hither, little brothers,
And listen now to me,
And I will read a story
To both, while at my knee."
Then Johnnie's flag hung idly,
And Charlie hushed his drum;
To hear sweet Mary's story
The mimic soldiers come.
"'Tis of a boy no larger,
My little Charles, than you;
But he had been in battle,
And all its terrors knew.
"His father was a captain;
He had no child beside;
And while he was an infant
His mother dear had died.
"And so from camp to battle,
From fight to camp again,
Had lived, this little hero,
On many a bloody plain.
"One day, when shouts were loudest
Upon the reddened field,--
When came the victor's war-cry,
'See! see! they fly! they yield!'--
"Forth then, to seek his father,
He went with eager joy;
But with a chance ball wounded,
Low lay the fearless boy!
"The son of a brave chieftain,
He made no sigh or groan;
His father's hand yet tighter
He clasped within his own!
"And so, when strife was ended,
No more to be begun,
In conquest's very moment
Thus fell the chieftain's son."
Then John took out his feather,
And put his flag away;
And Charlie's drum was silent
Until another day.
A Spring Wooing
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Come on walkin' wid me, Lucy; 't ain't no time to mope erroun'
Wen de sunshine 's shoutin' glory in de sky,
An' de little Johnny-Jump-Ups 's jes' a-springin' f'om de groun',
Den a-lookin' roun' to ax each othah w'y.
Don' you hyeah dem cows a-mooin'? Dat 's dey howdy to de spring;
Ain' dey lookin' most oncommon satisfied?
Hit 's enough to mek a body want to spread dey mouf an' sing
Jes' to see de critters all so spa'klin'-eyed.
W'y dat squir'l dat jes' run past us, ef I did n' know his tricks,
I could swaih he 'd got 'uligion jes' to-day;
An' dem liza'ds slippin' back an' fofe ermong de stones an' sticks
Is a-wigglin' 'cause dey feel so awful gay.
Oh, I see yo' eyes a-shinin' dough you try to mek me b'lieve
Dat you ain' so monst'ous happy 'cause you come;
But I tell you dis hyeah weathah meks it moughty ha'd to 'ceive
Ef a body's soul ain' blin' an' deef an' dumb.
Robin whistlin' ovah yandah ez he buil' his little nes';
Whut you reckon dat he sayin' to his mate?
He's a-sayin' dat he love huh in de wo'ds she know de bes',
An' she lookin' moughty pleased at whut he state.
Now, Miss Lucy, dat ah robin sholy got his sheer o' sense,
An' de hen-bird got huh mothah-wit fu' true;
So I t'ink ef you 'll ixcuse me, fu' I do' mean no erfence,
Dey 's a lesson in dem birds fu' me an' you.
I 's a-buil'in' o' my cabin, an' I 's vines erbove de do'
Fu' to kin' o' gin it sheltah f'om de sun;
Gwine to have a little kitchen wid a reg'lar wooden flo',
An' dey 'll be a back verandy w'en hit 's done.
I 's a-waitin' fu' you, Lucy, tek de 'zample o' de birds,
Dat 's a-lovin' an' a-matin' evahwhaih.
I cain' tell you dat I loves you in de robin's music wo'ds,
But my cabin 's talkin' fu' me ovah thaih!
Sonnet. To Peace.
by Thomas Gent

Come long-lost blessing! heaven-lov'd seraph, haste,
On pity's wings upborne, a world's wide woes
Invoke thy smiles extatic, long effac'd,
Beneath the tear which all corrosive flows;
While reason shudders, let ambition weep,
When wounding truth records what it has done:
Records the hosts consign'd to death's cold sleep,
Conspicuous 'mid the pomp of conflicts won!
Shall not the fiend relent, while groaning age
Pours its deep sorrows o'er its offspring slain;
While sire-robb'd infants mourn the deathful rage,
In many a penury enfeebled strain?
Sweet maid, return! behold affliction's tear,
And in my theme accept a nation's prayer.
Come Up From The Fields, Father
by Walt Whitman

Come up from the fields, father, here's a letter from our Pete;
And come to the front door, mother--here's a letter from thy dear son.
Lo, 'tis autumn;
Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,
Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages, with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind;
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang, and grapes on the trellis'd vines;
(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
Smell you the buckwheat, where the bees were lately buzzing?)
Above all, lo, the sky, so calm, so transparent after the rain, and with wondrous clouds;
Below, too, all calm, all vital and beautiful--and the farm prospers well.
Down in the fields all prospers well;
But now from the fields come, father--come at the daughter's call;
And come to the entry, mother--to the front door come, right away.
Fast as she can she hurries--something ominous--her steps trembling;
She does not tarry to smoothe her hair, nor adjust her cap.
Open the envelope quickly;
O this is not our son's writing, yet his name is sign'd;
O a strange hand writes for our dear son--O stricken mother's soul!
All swims before her eyes--flashes with black--she catches the main words only;
Sentences broken--gun-shot wound in the breast, cavalry skirmish, taken to hospital,
At present low, but will soon be better.
Ah, now, the single figure to me,
Amid all teeming and wealthy Ohio, with all its cities and farms,
Sickly white in the face, and dull in the head, very faint,
By the jamb of a door leans.
Grieve not so, dear mother, (the just-grown daughter speaks through her sobs;
The little sisters huddle around, speechless and dismay'd;)
See, dearest mother, the letter says Pete will soon be better.
Alas, poor boy, he will never be better, (nor may-be needs to be better, that brave and simple soul;)
While they stand at home at the door, he is dead already;
The only son is dead.
But the mother needs to be better;
She, with thin form, presently drest in black;
By day her meals untouch'd--then at night fitfully sleeping, often waking,
In the midnight waking, weeping, longing with one deep longing,
O that she might withdraw unnoticed--silent from life, escape and withdraw,
To follow, to seek, to be with her dear dead son.
Ode On A Sermon Against Glory
by Mark Akenside

Come then, tell me, sage divine,
Is it an offence to own
That our bosoms e'er incline
Toward immortal glory's throne?
For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
So can fancy's dream rejoice,
So conciliate reason's choice,
As one approving word of her impartial voice.
If to spurn at noble praise
Be the pass-port to thy heaven,
Follow thou those gloomy ways;
No such law to me was given,
Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me
Faring like my friends before me;
Nor an holier place desire
Than Timolean's arms acquire,
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.
An Invitation.
by Frances Anne Kemble (Fanny)

Come where the white waves dance along the shore
Of some lone isle, lost in the unknown seas;
Whose golden sands by mortal foot before
Were never printed, - where the fragrant breeze,
That never swept o'er land or flood that man
Could call his own, th' unearthly breeze shall fan
Our mingled tresses with its odorous sighs;
Where the eternal heaven's blue, sunny eyes
Did ne'er look down on human shapes of earth,
Or aught of mortal mould and death-doomed birth:
Come there with me; and when we are alone
In that enchanted desert, where the tone
Of earthly voice, or language, yet did ne'er
With its strange music startle the still air,
When clasped in thy upholding arms I stand,
Upon that bright world's coral-cradled strand,
When I can hide my face upon thy breast,
While thy heart answers mine together pressed,
Then fold me closer, bend thy head above me,
Listen - and I will tell thee how I love thee.
His Winding-sheet
by Robert Herrick

Come thou, who art the wine and wit
Of all I've writ;
The grace, the glory, and the best
Piece of the rest;
Thou art of what I did intend
The All, and End;
And what was made, was made to meet.
Thee, thee my sheet.
Come then, and be to my chaste side
Both bed and bride.
We two, as reliques left, will have
One rest, one grave;
And, hugging close, we need not fear
Lust entering here,
Where all desires are dead or cold,
As is the mould;
And all affections are forgot,
Or trouble not.
Here, here the slaves and prisoners be
From shackles free;
And weeping widows, long opprest,
Do here find rest.
The wronged client ends his laws
Here, and his cause;
Here those long suits of Chancery lie
Quiet, or die;
And all Star-chamber bills do cease,
Or hold their peace.
Here needs no court for our Request
Where all are best;
All wise, all equal, and all just
Alike i'th' dust.
Nor need we here to fear the frown
Of court or crown;
Where fortune bears no sway o'er things,
There all are kings.
In this securer place we'll keep,
As lull'd asleep;
Or for a little time we'll lie,
As robes laid by,
To be another day re-worn,
Turn'd, but not torn;
Or like old testaments engrost,
Lock'd up, not lost;
And for a-while lie here conceal'd,
To be reveal'd
Next, at that great Platonic year,
And then meet here.
A Sonnet In Dialogue.
by Henry Austin Dobson

FRANK (on the Lawn).
Come to the Terrace, May,--the sun is low.
MAY (in the House).
Thanks, I prefer my Browning here instead.
FRANK.
There are two peaches by the strawberry bed.
MAY.
They will be riper if we let them grow.
FRANK.
Then the Park-aloe is in bloom, you know.
MAY.
Also, her Majesty Queen Anne is dead.
FRANK.
But surely, May, your pony must be fed.
MAY.
And was, and is. I fed him hours ago.
'Tis useless, Frank, you see I shall not stir.
FRANK.
Still, I had something you would like to hear.
MAY.
No doubt some new frivolity of men.
FRANK.
Nay,--'tis a thing the gentler sex deplores
Chiefly, I think....
MAY (coming to the window).
What is this secret, then?
FRANK (mysteriously).
There are no eyes more beautiful than yours!
Summer
by John Clare

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.
The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest
In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover's breast;
I'll lean upon her breast and I'll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o'sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.
A Wedding Song.
by Jean Ingelow

Come up the broad river, the Thames, my Dane,
My Dane with the beautiful eyes!
Thousands and thousands await thee full fain,
And talk of the wind and the skies.
Fear not from folk and from country to part,
O, I swear it is wisely done:
For (I said) I will bear me by thee, sweetheart,
As becometh my father's son.
Great London was shouting as I went down.
"She is worthy," I said, "of this;
What shall I give who have promised a crown?
O, first I will give her a kiss."
So I kissed her and brought her, my Dane, my Dane,
Through the waving wonderful crowd:
Thousands and thousands, they shouted amain,
Like mighty thunders and loud.
And they said, "He is young, the lad we love,
The heir of the Isles is young:
How we deem of his mother, and one gone above,
Can neither be said nor sung.
"He brings us a pledge - he will do his part
With the best of his race and name;" - 
And I will, for I look to live, sweetheart,
As may suit with my mother's fame.
On A Sermon Against Glory
by Mark Akenside

Come then, tell me, sage divine,
Is it an offense to own
That our bosoms e'er incline
Toward immortal glory's throne?
For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure,
Bourbon's might, Braganza's treasure,
So can fancy's dream rejoice,
So conciliate reason's choice,
As one approving word of her impartial voice.
If to spurn at noble praise
Be the pass-port to thy heaven,
Follow thou those gloomy ways;
No such law to me was given,
Nor, I trust, shall I deplore me
Faring like my friends before me;
Nor an holier place desire
Than Timolean's arms acquire,
And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre.
To The Thawing Wind
by Robert Lee Frost

Come with rain. O loud Southwester!
Bring the singer, bring the nester;
Give the buried flower a dream;
make the settled snowbank steam;
Find the brown beneath the white;
But whate'er you do tonight,
bath my window, make it flow,
Melt it as the ice will go;
Melt the glass and leave the sticks
Like a hermit's crucifix;
Burst into my narrow stall;
Swing the picture on the wall;
Run the rattling pages o'er;
Scatter poems on the floor;
Turn the poet out of door.
The Meadow-Verse; Or, Anniversary To Mistress Bridget Lowman.
by Robert Herrick

Come with the spring-time forth, fair maid, and be
This year again the meadow's deity.
Yet ere ye enter give us leave to set
Upon your head this flowery coronet;
To make this neat distinction from the rest,
You are the prime and princess of the feast;
To which with silver feet lead you the way,
While sweet-breath nymphs attend on you this day.
This is your hour, and best you may command,
Since you are lady of this fairy land.
Full mirth wait on you, and such mirth as shall
Cherish the cheek but make none blush at all.
Ballade Of Ajam The Washerman
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

Come to me to-day wearing your green collar,
Make your two orange sleeves float in the air, and come to me.
Touch your hair with essence and colour your clothes yellow;
The deer of reason has fled from the hill of my heart;
Come to me.
The deer of reason has fled from the hill of my heart
Because I have seen your gold rings and your amber rings;
Your eyes have lighted a small fire below my heart,
Put on your gold rings and your amber rings, and come to me.
Put on your gold rings and your amber rings, and you will be more beautiful
Than the brown girls of poets and the milk-white wives of kings.
The coil of your hair is like a hangman's rope;
But press me to your green collar between your orange sleeves.
Press me to your green collar between your orange sleeves,
And give yourself once to Ajam. Slip away weeping,
Slip weeping away from the house of the wicked, and come to me.
Come to me to-day wearing your green collar,
Make your two orange sleeves float in the air and come to me.
From the Pus'hto (Afghans).
Come Unto Me
by George MacDonald

Come unto me, the Master says:--
But how? I am not good;
No thankful song my heart will raise,
Nor even wish it could.
I am not sorry for the past,
Nor able not to sin;
The weary strife would ever last
If once I should begin!
Hast thou no burden then to bear?
No action to repent?
Is all around so very fair?
Is thy heart quite content?
Hast thou no sickness in thy soul?
No labour to endure?
Then go in peace, for thou art whole;
Thou needest not his cure.
Ah, mock me not! I often sigh;
I have a nameless grief,
A faint sad pain--but such that I
Can look for no relief.
Come, come to him who made thy heart;
Come weary and oppressed;
To come to Jesus is thy part,
His part to give thee rest.
New grief, new hope he will bestow,
Thy grief and pain to quell;
Into thy heart himself will go,
And that will make thee well.
Greenwich Hospital
by William Lisle Bowles

Come to these peaceful seats, and think no more
Of cold, of midnight watchings, or the roar
Of Ocean, tossing on his restless bed!
Come to these peaceful seats, ye who have bled
For honour, who have traversed the great flood,
Or on the battle's front with stern eye stood,
When rolled its thunder, and the billows red
Oft closed, with sudden flashings, o'er the dead!
Oh, heavy are the sorrows that beset
Old age! and hard it is, hard to forget
The sunshine of our youth, our manhood's pride!
But here, O aged men! ye may abide
Secure, and see the last light on the wave
Of Time, which wafts you silent to your grave;
Like the calm evening ray, that smiles serene
Upon the tranquil Thames, and cheers the sinking scene.