DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
A Blue Love Song. To Miss-----.
by Thomas Moore

Air-"Come live with me and be my love."
Come wed with me and we will write,
My Blue of Blues, from morn till night.
Chased from our classic souls shall be
All thoughts of vulgar progeny;
And thou shalt walk through smiling rows
Of chubby duodecimos,
While I, to match thy products nearly,
Shall lie-in of a quarto yearly.
'Tis true, even books entail some trouble;
But live productions give one double.
Correcting children is such bother,--
While printers' devils correct the other.
Just think, my own Malthusian dear,
How much more decent 'tis to hear
From male or female--as it may be--
"How is your book?" than "How's your baby?"
And whereas physic and wet nurses
Do much exhaust paternal purses,
Our books if rickety may go
And be well dry-nurst in the Row;
And when God wills to take them hence,
Are buried at the Row's expense.
Besides, (as 'tis well proved by thee,
In thy own Works, vol. 93.)
The march, just now, of population
So much outscrips all moderation,
That even prolific herring-shoals
Keep pace not with our erring souls.[1]
Oh far more proper and well-bred
To stick to writing books instead;
And show the world how two Blue lovers
Can coalesce, like two book-covers,
(Sheep-skin, or calf, or such wise leather,)
Lettered at back and stitched together
Fondly as first the binder fixt 'em,
With naught but--literature betwixt 'em.
Longing
by Matthew Arnold

Come to me in my dreams, and then 
By day I shall be well again! 
For so the night will more than pay 
The hopeless longing of the day.
Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times, 
A messenger from radiant climes, 
And smile on thy new world, and be 
As kind to others as to me!
Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth, 
Come now, and let me dream it truth, 
And part my hair, and kiss my brow, 
And say, My love why sufferest thou?
Come to me in my dreams, and then 
By day I shall be well again! 
For so the night will more than pay 
The hopeless longing of the day.
To A Little Maid By A Policeman
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Come with me, little maid,
Nay, shrink not, thus afraid
I'll harm thee not!
Fly not, my love, from me
I have a home for thee
A fairy grot,
Where mortal eye
Can rarely pry,
There shall thy dwelling be!
List to me, while I tell
The pleasures of that cell,
Oh, little maid!
What though its couch be rude,
Homely the only food
Within its shade?
No thought of care
Can enter there,
No vulgar swain intrude!
Come with me, little maid,
Come to the rocky shade
I love to sing;
Live with us, maiden rare
Come, for we "want" thee there,
Thou elfin thing,
To work thy spell,
In some cool cell
In stately Pentonville!
Nursery Rhyme. CXXII. Scholastic.
by Unknown

Come when you're called,
Do what you're bid,
Shut the door after you,
Never be chid.
The Coolun
by James Stephens

Come with me, under my coat,
And we will drink our fill
Of the milk of the white goat,
Or wine if it be thy will;
And we will talk until
Talk is a trouble, too,
Out on the side of the hill,
And nothing is left to do,
But an eye to look into an eye
And a hand in a hand to slip,
And a sigh to answer a sigh,
And a lip to find out a lip:
What if the night be black
And the air on the mountain chill,
Where the goat lies down in her track
And all but the fern is still!
Stay with me, under my coat,
And we will drink our fill
Of the milk of the white goat
Out on the side of the hill.
To God.
by Robert Herrick

Come to me, God; but do not come
To me as to the General Doom
In power; or come Thou in that state
When Thou Thy laws did'st promulgate,
Whenas the mountain quaked for dread,
And sullen clouds bound up his head.
No; lay Thy stately terrors by
To talk with me familiarly;
For if Thy thunder-claps I hear,
I shall less swoon than die for fear.
Speak Thou of love and I'll reply
By way of Epithalamy,
Or sing of mercy and I'll suit
To it my viol and my lute;
Thus let Thy lips but love distil,
Then come, my God, and hap what will.
The Truth.
by Francis William Lauderdale Adams

Come then, let us at least know what's the truth.
Let us not blink our eyes and say
We did not understand; old age or youth
Benumbed our sense or stole our sight away.
It is a lie - just that, a lie - to declare
That wages are the worth of work.
No; they are what the Employer wills to spare
To let the Employee sheer starvation shirk.
They're the life-pittance Competition leaves,
The least for which brother'll slay brother.
He who the fruits of this hell-strife receives,
He is a thief, an assassin, and none other!
It is a lie - just that, a lie - to declare
That Rent's the interest on just gains.
Rent's the thumb-screw that makes the worker share
With him who worked not the produce of his pains.
Rent's the wise tax the human tape-worm knows.
The fat he takes; the life-lean leaves.
The holy Landlord is, as we suppose,
Just this - the model of assassin-thieves!
What is the trick the rich-man, then, contrives?
How play my lords their brilliant roles? - 
They live on the plunder of our toiling lives,
The degradation of our bodies and souls!
Sleep.
by Marietta Holley

Come to me soft-eyed sleep,
With your ermine sandalled feet;
Press the pain from my troubled brow
With your kisses cool and sweet;
Lull me with slumbrous song,
Song of your clime, the blest,
While on my heavy eyelids
Your dewy fingers rest.
Come with your native flowers,
Heartsease and lotus bloom,
Enwrap my weary senses
With the cloud of their perfume;
For the whispers of thought tire me,
Their constant, dull repeat,
Like low waves throbbing, sobbing,
With endless, endless beat.
A Canadian Snow-Fall.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

Come to the casement, we'll watch the snow
Softly descending on earth below,
Fairer and whiter than spotless down
Or the pearls that gleam in a monarch's crown,
Clothing the earth in its robe's bright flow;
Is it not lovely - the pure white snow?
See, as it falls o'er the landscape wide,
How kindly it seeks all blots to hide,
Shrouding each black, unsightly nook,
The miry banks of the little brook,
Robing bare branches in ermine white,
Making all lovely, spotless and bright.
In the farm-yard see with what magic skill
Its marvels of beauty it works at will:
The well-house now is a fairy hall,
And the rough, rude fence is a marble wall;
While gates and hillocks where barn fowl ranged
To ramparts and bastions now are changed.
How softly it falls - nor breath, nor sound,
Though four feet high it should pile the ground,
Though it change the face of wood and field,
With skill that no mortal could ever wield;
Yet, as it falls, not a murmur low - 
The noiseless, silent, white-winged snow!
See, in the rays of the morning bright,
How it blushes beneath the sun's red light;
How its diamond crystals gleam and shine,
Clearer than those of Golconda's mine;
Though the wintry winds may with anger blow,
Surely all love the beautiful snow.
My Little March Girl
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Come to the pane, draw the curtain apart,
There she is passing, the girl of my heart;
See where she walks like a queen in the street,
Weather-defying, calm, placid and sweet.
Tripping along with impetuous grace,
Joy of her life beaming out of her face,
Tresses all truant-like, curl upon curl,
Wind-blown and rosy, my little March girl.
Hint of the violet's delicate bloom,
Hint of the rose's pervading perfume!
How can the wind help from kissing her face,--
Wrapping her round in his stormy embrace?
But still serenely she laughs at his rout,
She is the victor who wins in the bout.
So may life's passions about her soul swirl,
Leaving it placid,--my little March girl.
What self-possession looks out of her eyes!
What are the wild winds, and what are the skies,
Frowning and glooming when, brimming with life,
Cometh the little maid ripe for the strife?
Ah! Wind, and bah! Wind, what might have you now?
What can you do with that innocent brow?
Blow, Wind, and grow, Wind, and eddy and swirl,
But bring her to me, Wind,--my little March girl.
Come Unto Me
by Nancy Rebecca Campbell Glass

"Come unto me!" Ah, gentlest word
E'er breathed in human ear!
"I am thy Savior and thy Lord;
Dear child, thou need'st not fear.
"Come unto me in sorrow's hour
When life seems dark and drear;
I'll shield thee from the tempter's power;
Dear child, thou need'st not fear.
"Come unto me when hopes have flown
Like leaves wind-swept and sere,
When every joy thou may'st bemoan;
Dear child, thou need'st not fear.
"Come unto me. I'll give thee rest,
Will wipe away each tear;
Come lean thy head upon my breast;
Dear child, thou need'st not fear."
To His Book.
by Robert Herrick

Come thou not near those men who are like bread
O'er-leaven'd, or like cheese o'er-renneted.
A Winter Prayer.
by George MacDonald

Come through the gloom of clouded skies,
The slow dim rain and fog athwart;
Through east winds keen with wrong and lies
Come and lift up my hopeless heart.
Come through the sickness and the pain,
The sore unrest that tosses still;
Through aching dark that hides the gain
Come and arouse my fainting will.
Come through the prate of foolish words,
The science with no God behind;
Through all the pangs of untuned chords
Speak wisdom to my shaken mind.
Through all the fears that spirits bow
Of what hath been, or may befall,
Come down and talk with me, for thou
Canst tell me all about them all.
Hear, hear my sad lone heart entreat,
Heart of all joy, below, above!
Come near and let me kiss thy feet,
And name the names of those I love!
Invitation To Love
by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Come when the nights are bright with stars
Or when the moon is mellow;
Come when the sun his golden bars
Drops on the hay-field yellow.
Come in the twilight soft and gray,
Come in the night or come in the day,
Come, O love, whene'er you may,
And you are welcome, welcome.
You are sweet, O Love, dear Love,
You are soft as the nesting dove.
Come to my heart and bring it rest
As the bird flies home to its welcome nest.
Come when my heart is full of grief
Or when my heart is merry;
Come with the falling of the leaf
Or with the redd'ning cherry.
Come when the year's first blossom blows,
Come when the summer gleams and glows,
Come with the winter's drifting snows,
And you are welcome, welcome.
Aprilian
by Madison Julius Cawein

I.
Come with me where April twilights
Wigwam blue the April hills;
Where the shadows and the high lights
Swarm the woods that Springtime fills.
Tents where dwell the tribes of beauty,
Tasseled scouts whose camp-fires glow
Over leagues of wild-flower booty
Rescued from the camps of snow.
II.
A thousand windflowers blowing!
They print the ways with palest pearl,
As if with raiment flowing
Here passed some glimmering girl.
A thousand bluets breaking!
They take the heart with glad surprise,
As if some wild girl waking
Looked at you with bewildered eyes.
A thousand buds and flowers,
A thousand birds and bees:
What spirit haunts the bowers!
What dream that no one sees!
III.
Her kirtle is white as the wild-plum bloom,
Her girdle is pink as the crab;
Her face is sweet as a wood perfume
Or haw that the sunbeams stab.
Her boddice is green as the beetle's wing
That jewels the light o' the sun;
And the earth and the air around her sing
Wherever her mad feet run.
Her beautiful feet, that bloom and bud
And print with blossoms each place.
Oh, let us follow them into the wood
And gaze on her, face to face.
Waiting.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Come to the hills, the woods are green - 
The heart is high when LOVE is sweet - 
There is a brook that flows between
Two mossy trees where we can meet,
Where we can meet and speak unseen.
I hear you laughing in the lane - 
The heart is high when LOVE is sweet - 
The clover smells of sun and rain
And spreads a carpet for our feet,
Where we can sit and dream again.
Come to the woods, the dusk is here - 
The heart is high when LOVE is sweet - 
A bird upon the branches near
Sets music to our hearts' glad beat,
Our hearts that beat with something dear.
I hear your step; the lane is passed; - 
The heart is high when LOVE is sweet - 
The little stars come bright and fast,
Like happy eyes to see us greet,
To see us greet and kiss at last.
An Incantation. Sung By The Bubble Spirit.
by Thomas Moore

Air.--Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow.
Come with me and we will blow
Lots of bubbles as we go;
Bubbles bright as ever Hope
Drew from fancy--or from soap;
Bright as e'er the South Sea sent
From its frothy element!
Come with me and we will blow
Lots of bubbles as we go.
Mix the lather, Johnny Wilks,
Thou, who rhym'st so well to bilks;[1]
Mix the lather--who can be
Fitter for such tasks than thee,
Great M. P. for Sudsbury!
Now the frothy charm is ripe,
Puffing Peter,[2] bring thy pipe,--
Thou whom ancient Coventry
Once so dearly loved that she
Knew not which to her was sweeter,
Peeping Tom or Puffing Peter;--
Puff the bubbles high in air,
Puff thy best to keep them there.
Bravo, bravo, Peter More!
Now the rainbow humbugs[3] soar.
Glittering all with golden hues
Such as haunt the dreams of Jews;--
Some reflecting mines that lie
Under Chili's glowing sky,
Some, those virgin pearls that sleep
Cloistered in the southern deep;
Others, as if lent a ray
From the streaming Milky Way,
Glistening o'er with curds and whey
From the cows of Alderney.
Now's the moment--who shall first
Catch the bubbles ere they burst?
Run, ye Squires, ye Viscounts, run,
Brogden, Teynham, Palmerston;--
John Wilks junior runs beside ye!
Take the good the knaves provide ye!
See, with upturned eyes and hands,
Where the Shareman, Brogden, stands,
Gaping for the froth to fall
Down his gullet--lye and all.
See!--
But, hark, my time is out--
Now, like some great water-spout,
Scattered by the cannon's thunder,
Burst ye bubbles, all asunder!
Come thi Ways in.
by John Hartley

Come thi ways in, an God bless thi, lad!
Come thi ways in, for thar't welcome, joy!
A'a! tha'rt a shockin young taistrel, lad,
But tha artn't as bad as they call thi, doy.
Tha'rt thi father upheeaped an daanthrussen, lad,
It's his mother 'at knows what a glaid wor he; - 
But thi britches' knees are booath brussen, lad,
An thi jacket, its raillee a shame to see.
It's weel for thee tha's a gronny, lad, - 
If it wornt for me tha'd be lost i' muck!
Tha'rt wild, but tha'rt better ner monny, lad,
An aw think 'at tha'll yet bring thi gronny gooid luck.
Nah, pool up to th' table an dry thi nooas; - 
(Awd nooan leearn mi appron to onny but thee,)
Wol tha'rt fillin thi belly aw'll patch up thi clooas,
Then aw'll send thi hooam daycent an cleean tha'll see.
Nah, what are ta dooin wi' th' pussy cat, pray?
If tha'll leeav it alooan it'll mell nooan o' thee,
Put th' mustard spooin daan! Does ta hear what aw say!
Let goa that cat tail! Ha tha aggravates me!
Tha mooant dip thi finger i'th' traitle pot, doy,
(Tho' aw reckon tha follers th' example tha's set,)
Mothers, nah days, dooan't know ha to train childer, joy,
But tha'll heed what thi gronny says, - willn't ta, pet?
A'a, dear! nah tha's upset thi basin o' stew!
All ovver thisen an mi cleean scarrd flooar: - 
Tha clumsy young imp; what next will ta do?
Tha'd wear aght job's patience, an twice as mich mooar!
Hold thi din! or aw'll gie thi a taste o' that strap!
Tha maks it noa better wi' yellin like that!
Come, whisht nah, - 'twor nobbut a little mishap; - 
Nah, whisht, - an tha'll see ha we'll leather yond cat.
Nah, dooan't touch mi thimel or needle an threead;
Sit daan like a gooid little child as tha art;
Wol aw wipe up this mess, an side th' butter an breead,
Then aw'll gie thi a penny to buy thi a tart.
For tha puts me i' mind ov a time long ago,
When thi father wor just sich a jockey as thee;
An tho' aw'm a widdy, an poor as a crow,
Ther'll be allus a bite an a sup for thee.
Tak thi booits off that fender! Tha's made it fair black;
Just see ha tha's scratched it! Aw'm sewer it's a sin!
Jump into theas clooas an fly hooam in a crack,
Or aw'll braik ivvery booan 'at tha has i' thi skin!
An stop hooam, until tha knows ha to behave,
Tha'd worrit my life aght i' less nor a wick!
Tell thi mother aw'm net gooin to be just a slave
To a taistrel like thee! soa nah, off tha gooas - Quick!
A Song Of Pitcairn's Island.
by William Cullen Bryant

Come take our boy, and we will go
Before our cabin door;
The winds shall bring us, as they blow,
The murmurs of the shore;
And we will kiss his young blue eyes,
And I will sing him, as he lies,
Songs that were made of yore:
I'll sing, in his delighted ear,
The island lays thou lov'st to hear.
And thou, while stammering I repeat,
Thy country's tongue shalt teach;
'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet
Than my own native speech:
For thou no other tongue didst know,
When, scarcely twenty moons ago,
Upon Tahete's beach,
Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine,
With many a speaking look and sign.
I knew thy meaning, thou didst praise
My eyes, my locks of jet;
Ah! well for me they won thy gaze,
But thine were fairer yet!
I'm glad to see my infant wear
Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair,
And when my sight is met
By his white brow and blooming cheek,
I feel a joy I cannot speak.
Come talk of Europe's maids with me,
Whose necks and cheeks, they tell,
Outshine the beauty of the sea,
White foam and crimson shell.
I'll shape like theirs my simple dress,
And bind like them each jetty tress,
A sight to please thee well:
And for my dusky brow will braid
A bonnet like an English maid.
Come, for the low sunlight calls,
We lose the pleasant hours;
'Tis lovelier than these cottage walls,
That seat among the flowers.
And I will learn of thee a prayer,
To Him who gave a home so fair,
A lot so blest as ours,
The God who made, for thee and me,
This sweet lone isle amid the sea.
Come To Me
by George MacDonald

Come to me, come to me, O my God;
Come to me everywhere!
Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod,
And the water and the air!
For thou art so far that I often doubt,
As on every side I stare,
Searching within, and looking without,
If thou canst be anywhere.
How did men find thee in days of old?
How did they grow so sure?
They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold,
They suffered, and kept themselves pure!
But now they say--neither above the sphere
Nor down in the heart of man,
But solely in fancy, ambition, and fear
The thought of thee began.
If only that perfect tale were true
Which ages have not made old,
Which of endless many makes one anew,
And simplicity manifold!
But he taught that they who did his word
The truth of it sure would know:
I will try to do it: if he be lord
Again the old faith will glow;
Again the old spirit-wind will blow
That he promised to their prayer;
And obeying the Son, I too shall know
His father everywhere!
The Sheep In Heaven.
by H. P. Nichols

"Come to the window, mother!
Look out, and you will see
How fast these little clouds sail on,
Above our old elm tree!
"And tell me, dearest mother,
Are these the sheep of heaven,
That in that land are feeding,
From morning until even?
"How soft and white and shining!
Oh! say, dear mother, there
Is everything so gentle,
So lovely and so fair?"
"We cannot see them, darling,
The sheep of heaven, here;
And far more beautiful than this
Does that bright land appear.
"Eye hath not seen, ear hath not heard,
Nor tongue of man can tell
The glories of that home above,
Where all the good shall dwell."
In The Garden
by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Aylmer's Garden, near the Lake. LAURENCE RABY and ESTELLE.
He:
Come to the bank where the boat is moor'd to the willow-tree low;
Bertha, the baby, won't notice, Brian, the blockhead, won't know.
She:
Bertha is not such a baby, sir, as you seem to suppose;
Brian, a blockhead he may be, more than you think for he knows.
He:
This much, at least, of your brother, from the beginning he knew
Somewhat concerning that other made such a fool of by you.
She:
Firmer those bonds were and faster, Frank was my spaniel, my slave.
You! you would fain be my master; mark you! the difference is grave.
He:
Call me your spaniel, your starling, take me and treat me as these,
I would be anything, darling! aye, whatsoever you please.
Brian and Basil are 'punting', leave them their dice and their wine,
Bertha is butterfly hunting, surely one hour shall be mine.
See, I have done with all duty; see, I can dare all disgrace,
Only to look at your beauty, feasting my eyes on your face.
She:
Look at me, aye, till your eyes ache! How, let me ask, will it end?
Neither for your sake, nor my sake, but for the sake of my friend?
He:
Is she your friend then? I own it, this is all wrong, and the rest,
Frustra sed anima monet, caro quod fortius est.
She:
Not quite so close, Laurence Raby, not with your arm round my waist;
Something to look at I may be, nothing to touch or to taste.
He:
Wilful as ever and wayward; why did you tempt me, Estelle?
She:
You misinterpret each stray word, you for each inch take an ell.
Lightly all laws and ties trammel me, I am warn'd for all that.
He (aside):
Perhaps she will swallow her camel when she has strained at her gnat.
She:
Therefore take thought and consider, weigh well, as I do, the whole,
You for mere beauty a bidder, say, would you barter a soul?
He:
Girl! That may happen, but this is; after this welcome the worst;
Blest for one hour by your kisses, let me be evermore curs'd.
Talk not of ties to me reckless, here every tie I discard,
Make me your girdle, your necklace,
She:
Laurence, you kiss me too hard.
He:
Aye, 'Tis the road to Avernus, n'est ce pas vrai donc, ma belle?
There let them bind us or burn us, mais le jeu vaut la chandelle.
Am I your lord or your vassal? Are you my sun or my torch?
You, when I look at you, dazzle, yet when I touch you, you scorch.
She:
Yonder are Brian and Basil watching us fools from the porch.
Come, Tell Me Some Olden Story.
by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon

I.
Come tell me some olden story
Of Knight or Paladin,
Whose sword on the field of glory
Bright laurel wreaths did win:
Tell me of the heart of fire
His courage rare did prove;
Speak on - oh! I will not tire - 
But never talk of love.
II.
Or, if thou wilt, I shall hearken
Some magic legend rare - 
How the Wizard's power did darken
The sunny summer air:
Thou'lt tell of Banshee's midnight wail,
Or corpse-light's ghastly gleam - 
It matters not how wild the tale
So love be not thy theme.
III.
Or, perhaps thou may'st have travelled
On distant, foreign strand,
Strange secrets have unravelled
In many a far-off land;
Describe each castle hoary,
Each fair or frowning shore - 
But should love blend in thy story
I'll list thy voice no more.
IV.
Thou askest with emotion,
Why am I thus so cold,
Urging all thy past devotion,
Well known - well tried of old;
Hush! bend a little nearer
That sad, o'erclouded brow - 
Could love vows make thee dearer
To me than thou art now!
Hurrah For The Volunteers
by Hanford Lennox Gordon

Come then, brave men, from the Land of Lakes
With steady steps and cheers;
Our country calls, as the battle breaks,
On the Northwest Pioneers.
Let the eagle scream, and the bayonet gleam!
Hurrah for the Volunteers!
Come to Me in Cherry-time.
by George Pope Morris

Come to me in cherry-time,
And, as twilight closes,
We will have a merry time,
Here among the roses!
When the breezes crisp the tide,
And the lindens quiver,
In our bark we'll safely glide
Down the rocky river!
When the stars, with quiet ray,
All the hill-tops brighten,
Cherry-ripe we'll sing and play
Where the cherries ripen!
Then come to me in cherry-time,
And, as twilight closes,
We will have a merry time
Here among the roses.
Echo
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.
Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again though cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago!