DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
Little Moccasins
by Robert William Service

Come out, O Little Moccasins, and frolic on the snow!
Come out, O tiny beaded feet, and twinkle in the light!
I'll play the old Red River reel, you used to love it so:
Awake, O Little Moccasins, and dance for me to-night!
Your hair was all a gleamy gold, your eyes a corn-flower blue;
Your cheeks were pink as tinted shells, you stepped light as a fawn;
Your mouth was like a coral bud, with seed pearls peeping through;
As gladdening as Spring you were, as radiant as dawn.
Come out, O Little Moccasins! I'll play so soft and low,
The songs you loved, the old heart-songs that in my mem'ry ring;
O child, I want to hear you now beside the campfire glow!
With all your heart a-throbbing in the simple words you sing.
For there was only you and I, and you were all to me;
And round us were the barren lands, but little did we fear;
Of all God's happy, happy folks the happiest were we. . . .
(Oh, call her, poor old fiddle mine, and maybe she will hear!)
Your mother was a half-breed Cree, but you were white all through;
And I, your father was - but well, that's neither here nor there;
I only know, my little Queen, that all my world was you,
And now that world can end to-night, and I will never care.
For there's a tiny wooden cross that pricks up through the snow:
(Poor Little Moccasins! you're tired, and so you lie at rest.)
And there's a grey-haired, weary man beside the campfire glow:
(O fiddle mine! the tears to-night are drumming on your breast.)
Song: To Celia
by Ben Jonson

Come my Celia, let us prove,
While wee may, the sports of love;
Time will not be ours, for'ever:
He, at length, our good will fever.
Spend not then his gifts in vaine.
Sunnes, that set, may rise againe:
But, if once wee lose this light,
'Tis, with us, perpetuall night.
Why should we deferre our joyes?
Fame, and rumor are but toyes.
Cannot wee delude the eyes
Of a few poore houshold spyes?
Or his easier eares beguile,
So removed by our wile?
'Tis no sinne, loves fruit to steale,
But the sweet theft to reveale:
To bee taken, to be seene,
These have crimes accounted beene.
To Isabel.
by George W. Sands

Come near me with thy lips, and, breathe o'er mine
Their breath, for I consume with love's desire, - 
Thine ivory arms about me clasp and twine,
And beam upon mine eye thine eye's soft fire;
Clasp me yet closer, till my heart feels thine
Thrill, as the chords of Memnon's mystic lyre
Thrilled at the sun's uprising! thou who art
The lone, the worshipped idol of my heart!
There! balmier than the south wind, when it brings
The scent of aromatic shrub and tree,
And tropic flower on ifs glowing wings,
Thine odorous breath is wafted over me;
How to thy dewy lips mine own lip clings,
And my whole being is absorbed in thee;
And in my breast thine eyes have lit a fire
That never, never, never shall expire!
Eternal - is it not eternal - this
Our passionate love? what pow'r shall part us twain?
Not even Death! Life could bestow no bliss
Like death with thee, and I would rend its chain
If thou shouldst perish, for my heaven is
To gaze upon thee! I could bear all pain
Unsighing, so not parted from thy side,
My beautiful! my spirit's chosen bride!
They try to woo me from thy fond embrace,
To lure me from the light of those dear eyes;
They tell me that in fortune's arduous chase,
I have such fleetness as would win the prize; - 
But all the pomps of circumstance and place,
A glance, a word, a smile of thine outvies!
Leave Fortune to her parasites! mine be
The blessed lot to dwell with love and thee.
To lead thee on through life, and to enlarge
Thy soul with added knowledge, day by day,
To guard thee, as an angel guards his charge,
From every ill that lurks along the way!
To smooth that rugged way, and strew its marge
With the bright flowrs that never can decay, - 
This were a lot too glorious, too divine,
And yet Hope whispers that it shall be mine.
Now listen, love, - this plan shall rule my life
And thine: - In some remote and sunny dell,
Far from the crowded city's silly strife,
My hands shall rear the home where we will dwell;
Shall till the soil, with fertile fruitage rife,
And teach the golden ear to shoot and swell;
And my sole wished for recompense shall be
My ever growing, deep'ning love for thee.
Thy task shall be to train the trailing vine,
To watch, and cherish in its growth, the flow'r
Whose breath and cheek are sweet and fair as thine;
To bless and brighten the domestic bow'r
Where we will build to Love a hallowed shrine,
And bow us, in his worship, every hour;
Till, chastened by thy smile, my heart has grown
As pure, and soft, and sinless as thine own.
Oh, hasten, love! to realize the dream, - 
Come from the world, - the crowd is not for thee;
Forsake it then, ere the contagious steam
Of its foul breath has soiled thy purity; - 
Come, for my heart would burst could I but deem
That such as they are, thou couldst ever be!
Come, for my soul adores thee with a love
As burning as the seraphs feel above.
The Invitation
by John Clare

Come hither, my dear one, my choice one, and rare one,
And let us be walking the meadows so fair,
Where on pilewort and daisies the eye fondly gazes,
And the wind plays so sweet in thy bonny brown hair.
Come with thy maiden eye, lay silks and satins by;
Come in thy russet or grey cotton gown;
Come to the meads, dear, where flags, sedge, and reeds appear,
Rustling to soft winds and bowing low down.
Come with thy parted hair, bright eyes, and forehead bare;
Come to the whitethorn that grows in the lane;
To banks of primroses, where sweetness reposes,
Come, love, and let us be happy again.
Come where the violet flowers, come where the morning showers
Pearl on the primrose and speedwell so blue;
Come to that clearest brook that ever runs round the nook
Where you and I pledged our first love so true.
Tout Pour La Tripe.
by Thomas Moore

"If in China or among the natives of India, we claimed civil advantages which were connected with religious usages, little as we might value those forms in our hearts, we should think common decency required us to abstain from treating them with offensive contumely; and, though unable to consider them sacred, we would not sneer at the name of Fot, or laugh at the imputed divinity of Visthnou."--Courier, Tuesday. Jan. 16.
Come take my advice, never trouble your cranium,
When "civil advantages" are to be gained,
What god or what goddess may help to obtain you 'em,
Hindoo or Chinese, so they're only obtained.
In this world (let me hint in your organ auricular)
All the good things to good hypocrites fall;
And he who in swallowing creeds is particular,
Soon will have nothing to swallow at all.
Oh place me where Fo (or, as some call him, Fot)
Is the god from whom "civil advantages" flow,
And you'll find, if there's anything snug to be got,
I shall soon be on excellent terms with old Fo.
Or were I where Vishnu, that four-handed god,
Is the quadruple giver of pensions and places,
I own I should feel it unchristian and odd
Not to find myself also in Vishnu's good graces.
For among all the gods that humanely attend
To our wants in this planet, the gods to my wishes
Are those that, like Vishnu and others, descend
In the form so attractive, of loaves and of fishes![1]
So take my advice--for if even the devil
Should tempt men again as an idol to try him,
'Twere best for us Tories even then to be civil,
As nobody doubts we should get something by him.
Childhood Calls
by John Frederick Freeman

Come over, come over the deepening river,
Come over again the dark torrent of years,
Come over, come back where the green leaves quiver,
And the lilac still blooms and the grey sky clears.
Come, come back to the everlasting garden,
To that green heaven, and the blue heaven above.
Come back to the time when time brought no burden
And love was unconscious, knowing not love.
Ballade Of Nurshali
by Edward Powys Mathers (As Translator)

Come in haste this dusk, dear child. I will be on the water path
When your girl friends go laughing by the road.
"Come in haste this dusk; I have become your nightingale,
And the young girls leave me alone because of you.
I give you the poppy of my mouth and my fallen hair."
Come in haste this dusk, dear child.
"I have dishevelled and spread out my hair for you;
Take my wrist, for there is no shame
And my father has gone out.
Sit near me on this red bed quietly."
Come in haste this dusk, dear child.
"Sit near me on this red bed, I lift the poppy to your lips;
Your hand is strong upon my breast;
My beauty is a garden and you the bird in the flowering tree."
Come in haste this dusk, dear child.
"My beauty is a garden with crimson flowers."
But I cannot reach over the thicket of your hair.
This is Nurshali sighing for the garden;
Come in haste this dusk, dear child.
From the Pus'hto (Afghans).
A Drunken Man's Praise Of Sobriety
by William Butler Yeats

Come swish around, my pretty punk,
And keep me dancing still
That I may stay a sober man
Although I drink my fill.
Sobriety is a jewel
That I do much adore;
And therefore keep me dancing
Though drunkards lie and snore.
O mind your feet, O mind your feet,
Keep dancing like a wave,
And under every dancer
A dead man in his grave.
No ups and downs, my pretty,
A mermaid, not a punk;
A drunkard is a dead man,
And all dead men are drunk.
Come Not, When I Am Dead
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

Come not, when I am dead,
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
To trample round my fallen head,
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;
But thou, go by.
Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
I care no longer, being all unblest:
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
And I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie:
Go by, go by.
Ode
by Robert Southey

written on the first of January, 1794
Come melancholy Moralizer--come!
Gather with me the dark and wintry wreath;
With me engarland now
The SEPULCHRE OF TIME!
Come Moralizer to the funeral song!
I pour the dirge of the Departed Days,
For well the funeral song
Befits this solemn hour.
But hark! even now the merry bells ring round
With clamorous joy to welcome in this day,
This consecrated day,
To Mirth and Indolence.
Mortal! whilst Fortune with benignant hand
Fills to the brim thy cup of happiness,
Whilst her unclouded sun
Illumes thy summer day,
Canst thou rejoice--rejoice that Time flies fast?
That Night shall shadow soon thy summer sun?
That swift the stream of Years
Rolls to Eternity?
If thou hast wealth to gratify each wish,
If Power be thine, remember what thou art--
Remember thou art Man,
And Death thine heritage!
Hast thou known Love? does Beauty's better sun
Cheer thy fond heart with no capricious smile,
Her eye all eloquence,
Her voice all harmony?
Oh state of happiness! hark how the gale
Moans deep and hollow o'er the leafless grove!
Winter is dark and cold--
Where now the charms of Spring?
Sayst thou that Fancy paints the future scene
In hues too sombrous? that the dark-stol'd Maid
With stern and frowning front
Appals the shuddering soul?
And would'st thou bid me court her faery form
When, as she sports her in some happier mood,
Her many-colour'd robes
Dance varying to the Sun?
Ah vainly does the Pilgrim, whose long road
Leads o'er the barren mountain's storm-vext height,
With anxious gaze survey
The fruitful far-off vale.
Oh there are those who love the pensive song
To whom all sounds of Mirth are dissonant!
There are who at this hour
Will love to contemplate!
For hopeless Sorrow hails the lapse of Time,
Rejoicing when the fading orb of day
Is sunk again in night,
That one day more is gone.
And he who bears Affliction's heavy load
With patient piety, well pleas'd he knows
The World a pilgrimage,
The Grave the inn of rest.
Mediaeval Eventide Song
by Eugene Field

Come hither, lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night,
For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white,
And yonder sings ye angell as onely angells may,
And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.
To them that have no lyttel childe Godde sometimes sendeth down
A lyttel childe that ben a lyttel lambkyn of his owne;
And if so bee they love that childe, He willeth it to staye,
But elsewise, in His mercie He taketh it awaye.
And sometimes, though they love it, Godde yearneth for ye childe,
And sendeth angells singing, whereby it ben beguiled;
They fold their arms about ye lamb that croodleth at his play,
And beare him to ye garden that bloometh farre awaye.
I wolde not lose ye lyttel lamb that Godde hath lent to me;
If I colde sing that angell songe, how joysome I sholde bee!
For, with mine arms about him, and my musick in his eare,
What angell songe of paradize soever sholde I feare?
Soe come, my lyttel childe, and lie upon my breast to-night,
For yonder fares an angell yclad in raimaunt white,
And yonder sings that angell, as onely angells may,
And his songe ben of a garden that bloometh farre awaye.
Come O'er The Sea.
by Thomas Moore

Come o'er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Let fate frown on, so we love and part not;
'Tis life where thou art, 'tis death where thou art not.
Then come o'er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Come wherever the wild wind blows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.
Was not the sea
Made for the Free,
Land for courts and chains alone?
Here we are slaves,
But, on the waves,
Love and Liberty's all our own.
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us,
All earth forgot, and all heaven around us--
Then come o'er the sea,
Maiden, with me,
Mine thro' sunshine, storm, and snows;
Seasons may roll,
But the true soul
Burns the same, where'er it goes.
The Creaking Door
by Madison Julius Cawein

Come in, old Ghost of all that used to be!
You find me old,
And love grown cold,
And fortune fled to younger company:
Departed, as the glory of the day,
With friends! And you, it seems, have come to stay.
'T is time to pray.
Come; sit with me, here at Life's creaking door,
All comfortless.
Think, nay! then, guess,
What was the one thing, eh? that made me poor?
The love of beauty, that I could not bind?
My dream of truth? or faith in humankind?
But, never mind!
All are departed now, with love and youth,
Whose stay was brief;
And left but grief
And gray regret two jades, who tell the truth;
Whose children memories of things to be,
And things that failed, within my heart, ah me!
Cry constantly.
None can turn time back, and no man delay
Death when he knocks.
What good are clocks,
Or human hearts, to stay for us that day
When at Life's creaking door we see his smile,
Death's! at the door of this old House of Trial?
Old Ghost, let's wait awhile
City Lyrics
by Nathaniel Parker Willis

Argument. - The poet starts from the Bowling Green to take his sweetheart up to Thompson's for an ice, or (if she is inclined for more) ices. He confines his muse to matters which any every-day man and young woman may see in taking the same promenade for the same innocent refreshment.
Come out, love, the night is enchanting!
The moon hangs just over Broadway;
The stars are all lighted and panting,
(Hot weather up there, I dare say!)
'Tis seldom that 'coolness' entices,
And love is no better for chilling,
But come up to Thompson's for ices,
And cool your warm heart for a shilling!
What perfume comes balmily o'er us?
Mint juleps from City Hotel!
A loafer is smoking before us,
(A nasty cigar, by the smell!)
Oh Woman! thou secret past knowing!
Like lilachs that grow by the wall,
You breathe every air that is going,
Yet gather but sweetness from all!
On, on! by St. Paul's, and the Astor!
Religion seems very ill-plann'd!
For one day we list to the pastor,
For six days we list to the band!
The sermon may dwell on the future,
The organ your pulses may calm,
When, pest! that remember'd cachucha
Upsets both the sermon and psalm!
Oh, pity the love that must utter
While goes a swift omnibus by!
(Though sweet is I scream* when the flutter
Of fans shows thermometers high),
But if what I bawl, or I mutter,
Falls into your ear but to die,
Oh, the dew that falls into the gutter
Is not more unhappy than I
To A Squirrel At Kyle-na-gno
by William Butler Yeats

Come play with me;
Why should you run
Through the shaking tree
As though I'd a gun
To strike you dead?
When all I would do
Is to scratch your head
And let you go.
The Mighty Must
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Come mighty Must!
Inevitable Shall!
In thee I trust.
Time weaves my coronal!
Go mocking Is!
Go disappointing Was!
That I am this
Ye are the cursed cause!
Yet humble Second shall be First,
I ween;
And dead and buried be the curst
Has Been!
Oh weak Might Be!
Oh May, Might, Could, Would, Should!
How powerless ye
For evil or for good!
In every sense
Your moods I cheerless call,
Whate'er your tense
Ye are Imperfect, all!
Ye have deceived the trust I've shown
In ye!
Away!    The Mighty Must alone
Shall be!
The Passionate Printer To His Love
by Henry Austin Dobson

(Whose name is Amanda.)
With Apologies to the Shade of Christopher Marlowe.
Come live with me and be my Dear;
And till that happy bond shall lapse,
I'll set your Poutings in Brevier,[l]
Your Praises in the largest CAPS.
There's Diamond--'tis for your Eyes;
There's Ruby--that will match your Lips;
Pearl, for your Teeth; and Minion-size.
To suit your dainty Finger-tips.
In Nonpareil I'll put your Face;
In Rubric shall your Blushes rise;
There is no Bourgeois in your Case;
Your Form can never need "Revise."
Your Cheek seems "Ready for the Press";
Your Laugh as Clarendon is clear;
There's more distinction in your Dress
Than in the oldest Elzevir.
So with me live, and with me die;
And may no "FINIS" e'er intrude
To break into mere "Printers' Pie"
The Type of our Beatitude!
(ERRATUM.--If my suit you flout,
And choose some happier Youth to wed,
'Tis but to cross AMANDA out,
And read another name instead.)
The Ballad Of Moll Magee
by William Butler Yeats

Come round me, little childer;
There, don't fling stones at me
Because I mutter as I go;
But pity Moll Magee.
My man was a poor fisher
With shore lines in the say;
My work was saltin' herrings
The whole of the long day.
And sometimes from the Saltin' shed
I scarce could drag my feet,
Under the blessed moonlight,
Along thc pebbly street.
I'd always been but weakly,
And my baby was just born;
A neighbour minded her by day,
I minded her till morn.
I lay upon my baby;
Ye little childer dear,
I looked on my cold baby
When the morn grew frosty and clear.
A weary woman sleeps so hard!
My man grew red and pale,
And gave me money, and bade me go
To my own place, Kinsale.
He drove me out and shut the door.
And gave his curse to me;
I went away in silence,
No neighbour could I see.
The windows and the doors were shut,
One star shone faint and green,
The little straws were turnin round
Across the bare boreen.
I went away in silence:
Beyond old Martin's byre
I saw a kindly neighbour
Blowin' her mornin' fire.
She drew from me my story --
My money's all used up,
And still, with pityin', scornin' eye,
She gives me bite and sup.
She says my man will surely come
And fetch me home agin;
But always, as I'm movin' round,
Without doors or within,
Pilin' the wood or pilin' the turf,
Or goin' to the well,
I'm thinkin' of my baby
And keenin' to mysel'.
And Sometimes I am sure she knows
When, openin' wide His door,
God lights the stats, His candles,
And looks upon the poor.
So now, ye little childer,
Ye won't fling stones at me;
But gather with your shinin' looks
And pity Moll Magee.
Stir thi Lass!
by John Hartley

Come lassie be stirrin, for th' lark's up ith' lift,
An th' dew drops are hastin away;
An th' mist oth' hillside is beginnin to shift,
An th' flaars have all wakkened for th' day.
Tha promised to meet me beside this thorn tree,
An darlin, thi sweet face awm langing to see;
When tha arn't here ther's noa beauty for me;
Soa stir thi lass, stir thi,
Or else awst come for thi,
For tha knows what tha tell'd me last neet tha wod be.
Come lassie be stirrin, awm here all alooan;
Tha'rt sewerly net slumb'rin still;
Th' lark's finished his tune an th' dewdrops have gooan,
An th' mist's rolled away ovver th' hill.
Net a wink have aw slept sin aw left thee last neet,
Lukkin forrad to th' time when tha sed we should meet;
But it's past, an mi sweetheart is still aght oth' seet;
But its cappin, lass, cappin,
'At tha should be nappin,
When tha knows what tha promised at th' end o' awr street.
Awm weary o' waitin, aw'll off to mi wark,
Awst be bated a quarter, - that's flat; - 
If tha's nobbut been fooilin me just for a lark,
Tha may find thi mistak when to lat.
Aw wanted to mak thi mi wife, for aw thowt,
Tha'd prove thisen just sich a mate as aw sowt;
But it seems tha'rt a false-hearted, young gooid-for-nowt!
But aw see thi, lass, see thi!
God bless thi! forgie me!
For tha'rt truer an fairer an dearer nor owt.
A Night-Piece
by Edward Shanks

Come out and walk. The last few drops of light
Drain silently out of the cloudy blue;
The trees are full of the dark-stooping night,
The fields are wet with dew.
All's quiet in the wood but, far away,
Down the hillside and out across the plain,
Moves, with long trail of white that marks its way,
The softly panting train.
Come through the clearing. Hardly now we see
The flowers, save dark or light against the grass,
Or glimmering silver on a scented tree
That trembles as we pass.
Hark now! So far, so far ... that distant song ...
Move not the rustling grasses with your feet.
The dusk is full of sounds, that all along
The muttering boughs repeat.
So far, so faint, we lift our heads in doubt.
Wind, or the blood that beats within our ears,
Has feigned a dubious and delusive note,
Such as a dreamer hears.
Again ... again! The faint sounds rise and fail.
So far the enchanted tree, the song so low...
A drowsy thrush? A waking nightingale?
Silence. We do not know.