DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
The Naiads' Music
by Robert Malise Bowyer Nichols

(From 'A Faun's Holiday')
Come, ye sorrowful, and steep
Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep:
For our kisses lightlier run
Than the traceries of the sun
By the lolling water cast
Up grey precipices vast,
Lifting smooth and warm and steep
Out of the palely shimmering deep.
Come, ye sorrowful, and take
Kisses that are but half awake:
For here are eyes O softer far
Than the blossom of the star
Upon the mothy twilit waters,
And here are mouths whose gentle laughters
Are but the echoes of the deep
Laughing and murmuring in its sleep.
Come, ye sorrowful, and see
The raindrops flaming goldenly
On the stream's eddies overhead
And dragonflies with drops of red
In the crisp surface of each wing
Threading slant rains that flash and sing,
Or under the water-lily's cup,
From darkling depths, roll slowly up
The bronze flanks of an ancient bream
Into the hot sun's shattered beam,
Or over a sunk tree's bubbled hole
The perch stream in a golden shoal:
Come, ye sorrowful; our deep
Holds dreams lovelier than sleep.
But if ye sons of Sorrow come
Only wishing to be numb:
Our eyes are sad as bluebell posies,
Our breasts are soft as silken roses,
And our hands are tenderer
Than the breaths that scarce can stir
The sunlit eglantine that is
Murmurous with hidden bees.
Come, ye sorrowful, and steep
Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep.
Come, ye sorrowful, for here
No voices sound but fond and clear
Of mouths as lorn as is the rose
That under water doth disclose,
Amid her crimson petals torn,
A heart as golden as the morn;
And here are tresses languorous
As the weeds wander over us,
And brows as holy and as bland
As the honey-coloured sand
Lying sun-entranced below
The lazy water's limpid flow:
Come, ye sorrowful, and steep
Your tired brows in a nectarous sleep.
To The Maids, To Walk Abroad
by Robert Herrick

Come, sit we under yonder tree,
Where merry as the maids we'll be;
And as on primroses we sit,
We'll venture, if we can, at wit;
If not, at draw-gloves we will play,
So spend some minutes of the day;
Or else spin out the thread of sands,
Playing at questions and commands:
Or tell what strange tricks Love can do,
By quickly making one of two.
Thus we will sit and talk, but tell
No cruel truths of Philomel,
Or Phillis, whom hard fate forced on
To kill herself for Demophon;
But fables we'll relate; how Jove
Put on all shapes to get a Love;
As now a satyr, then a swan,
A bull but then, and now a man.
Next, we will act how young men woo,
And sigh and kiss as lovers do;
And talk of brides; and who shall make
That wedding-smock, this bridal-cake,
That dress, this sprig, that leaf, this vine,
That smooth and silken columbine.
This done, we'll draw lots who shall buy
And gild the bays and rosemary;
What posies for our wedding rings;
What gloves we'll give, and ribbonings;
And smiling at our selves, decree
Who then the joining priest shall be;
What short sweet prayers shall be said,
And how the posset shall be made
With cream of lilies, not of kine,
And maiden's-blush for spiced wine.
Thus having talk'd, we'll next commend
A kiss to each, and so we'll end.
Upon Comely, A Good Speaker But An Ill Singer. Epig.
by Robert Herrick

Comely acts well; and when he speaks his part,
He doth it with the sweetest tones of art:
But when he sings a psalm, there's none can be
More curs'd for singing out of tune than he.
To The Genius Of His House
by Robert Herrick

Command the roof, great Genius, and from thence
Into this house pour down thy influence,
That through each room a golden pipe may run
Of living water by thy benizon;
Fulfil the larders, and with strength'ning bread
Be ever-more these bins replenished.
Next, like a bishop consecrate my ground,
That lucky fairies here may dance their round;
And, after that, lay down some silver pence,
The master's charge and care to recompence.
Charm then the chambers; make the beds for ease,
More than for peevish pining sicknesses;
Fix the foundation fast, and let the roof
Grow old with time, but yet keep weather-proof.
Come, Rest In This Bosom.
by Thomas Moore

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Tho' the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.
Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same
Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame?
I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.
Thou hast called me thy Angel in moments of bliss,
And thy Angel I'll be, mid the horrors of this,--
Thro' the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,
And shield thee, and save thee,--or perish there too!
Baby's Trotting Song
by Clara Doty Bates

[Daintily]
Come, see how the ladies ride,
All so pretty, all so gay,
In their beauty, in their pride,
Down Broadway;
Prancing horses silver shod,
All so pretty, all so gay;
Princely feathers bend and nod,
Down Broadway.
[Roughly]
Jiggety-jog, jiggety-jog,
Over the mountain, through the bog--
That's the way the farmers go,
Hear the news and see the show;
Pumpkins round strapped on behind,
Eggs in baskets, too, you'll find,
Soon to change for calico--
That's the way the farmers go.
[Tea-Bell Accompaniment]
Bells a-jingle, fingers tingle,
Ditto toes, likewise nose.
The wind doth blow,
And all the snow
Around doth scatter;
Our teeth they chatter,
But that's no matter--
The song rings clear
With a Happy New Year,
And never a mutter,
As we fly in our cutter.
[Trot to Boston]
Jingle, jar, horse car,
Leave you near, or take you far.
Take a seat upon my lap,
Cling on, swing on by the strap;
Here a stop, and there a start--
Let me off, I'll take a cart!
[Boisterously]
Sword and pistols by their side,
And that's the way the officers ride!
Boots stretched out like a letter V,
we belong to the cavalry!
Over the hurdles after the hounds,
tirra-la! the hunting-horn sounds--
Dashaway, slashaway, reckless and fast!
Crashaway, smashaway, tumbled at last!
Translations. - Advent. (Luther's Song-Book.)
by George MacDonald

Come, saviour of nations wild,
Of the maiden owned the child
That may wonder all the earth
God should grant it such a birth.
Not of man's flesh or man's blood
Only of the Spirit of God
Is God's Word a man become,
And blooms the fruit of woman's womb.
Maiden, she was found with child,
Nor was chastity defiled;
Many a virtue from her shone:
God was there upon his throne.
From that chamber of content,
Royal palace pure, he went;
God by kind, in human grace
Forth he comes to run his race.
From the Father came his road,
And returns again to God;
Unto hell it did go down,
Up then to the Father's throne.
Thou, the Father's form express,
Get thee victory in the flesh,
That thy godlike power in us
Make sick flesh victorious.
Shines thy manger bright and fair;
Sets the night a new star there:
Darkness thence must keep away;
Faith dwells ever in the day.
Honour unto God be done;
Honour to his only son;
Honour to the Holy Ghost,
Now, and ever, ending not. Amen.
To Sleep
by Walter Savage Landor

Come, Sleep! but mind ye! if you come without
The little girl that struck me at the rout,
By Jove! I would not give you half-a-crown
For all your poppy-heads and all your down.
Enigma.
by Thomas Moore

monstrum nulla virtute redemptum.
Come, riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,
And tell me what my name may be.
I am nearly one hundred and thirty years old,
And therefore no chicken, as you may suppose;--
Tho' a dwarf in my youth (as my nurses have told),
I have, every year since, been out-growing my clothes:
Till at last such a corpulent giant I stand,
That if folks were to furnish me now with a suit,
It would take every morsel of scrip in the land
But to measure my bulk from the head to the foot.
Hence they who maintain me, grown sick of my stature,
To cover me nothing but rags will supply;
And the doctors declare that in due course of nature
About the year 30 in rags I shall die.
Meanwhile, I stalk hungry and bloated around,
An object of interest most painful to all;
In the warehouse, the cottage, the place I'm found,
Holding citizen, peasant, and king in nay thrall.
Then riddle-me-ree, oh riddle-me-ree,
Come tell me what my name may be.
When the lord of the counting-house bends o'er his book,
Bright pictures of profit delighting to draw,
O'er his shoulders with large cipher eyeballs I look,
And down drops the pen from his paralyzed paw!
When the Premier lies dreaming of dear Waterloo,
And expects thro' another to caper and prank it,
You'd laugh did you see, when I bellow out "Boo!"
How he hides his brave Waterloo head in the blanket.
When mighty Belshazzar brims high in the hall
His cup, full of gout, to the Gaul's overthrow,
Lo, "Eight Hundred Millions" I write on the wall,
And the cup falls to earth and--the gout to his toe!
But the joy of my heart is when largely I cram
My maw with the fruits of the Squirearchy's acres,
And knowing who made me the thing that I am,
Like the monster of Frankenstein, worry my makers.
Then riddle-me-ree, come, riddle-me-ree,
And tell, if thou know'st, who I may be.
Solatium
by William Schwenck Gilbert

Comes the broken flower -
Comes the cheated maid -
Though the tempest lower,
Rain and cloud will fade!
Take, O maid, these posies:
Though thy beauty rare
Shame the blushing roses,
They are passing fair!
Wear the flowers till they fade;
Happy be thy life, O maid!
O'er the season vernal,
Time may cast a shade;
Sunshine, if eternal,
Makes the roses fade:
Time may do his duty;
Let the thief alone -
Winter hath a beauty
That is all his own.
Fairest days are sun and shade:
Happy be thy life, O maid!
April
by Walter De La Mare

Come, then, with showers; I love thy cloudy face
Gilded with splendour of the sunbeam thro'
The heedless glory of thy locks. I know
The arch, sweet languor of thy fleeting grace,
The windy lovebeams of thy dwelling-place,
Thy dim dells where in azure bluebells blow,
The brimming rivers where thy lightnings go
Harmless and full and swift from race to race.
Thou takest all young hearts captive with thine eyes;
At rumour of thee the tongues of children ring
Louder than bees; the golden poplars rise
Like trumps of peace; and birds, on homeward wing,
Fly mocking echoes shrill along the skies,
Above the waves' grave diapasoning.
Come
by Sara Teasdale

Come, when the pale moon like a petal
Floats in the pearly dusk of spring,
Come with arms outstretched to take me,
Come with lips pursed up to cling.
Come, for life is a frail moth flying,
Caught in the web of the years that pass,
And soon we two, so warm and eager,
Will be as the gray stones in the grass.
Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 - To Henry Crabb Robinson
by William Wordsworth

Companion! by whose buoyant Spirit cheered,
In whose experience trusting, day by day
Treasures I gained with zeal that neither feared
The toils nor felt the crosses of the way,
These records take, and happy should I be
Were but the Gift a meet Return to thee
For kindnesses that never ceased to flow,
And prompt self-sacrifice to which I owe
Far more than any heart but mine can know.
W. Wordsworth.
Rydal Mount, Feb. 14th, 1842.
Invocation To Summer.
by W. M. MacKeracher

Come, Summer, come, nor in the south delay;
We do thee honor with a longer day;
We prize thee more, we better know thy worth;
We hold thee dearer in the truer north:
Come, Summer, come.
Come, Summer, come, and in the early dawn
Find sparkling dewdrops on the fragrant lawn;
Hush all before thy majesty at noon,
And hallow the long evening hours; come soon,
Come, Summer, come.
Come, Summer, come, make meadow grasses long;
Make all the groves exuberant with song,
The pasture corners canopy with shades,
And thickly roof the silent forest glades:
Come, Summer, come.
Come, Summer, come, and with thy magic breath
Make consummation of the death of death;
Complete the work of thy sweet sister, Spring;
Life more abundantly give everything:
Come, Summer, come.
Comfort Ye!
by William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

"Comfort ye, my people!"
Saith your God,--
"And be ye comforted!
And--be--ye--comforted!"
Roughly my plough did plough you,
Sharp were my strokes, and sore,
But nothing less could bow you,
Nothing less could your souls restore
To the depths and the heights of my longing,
To the strength you had known before.
For--you were falling, falling,
Even the best of you,
Falling from your high calling;
And this, My test of you,
Has been for your souls' redemption
From the little things of earth,
What seemed to you death's agony
Was but a greater birth.
And now you shall have gladness
For the years you have seen ill;
Give up to Me your sadness,
And I your cup will fill.
The Stay-At-Home
by Theodosia Garrison

Comin' or goin' still they spread the news,
About America how grand it is,
The wonders that are waitin' you to choose
And gold that common that like sand it is.
"And here you stick," says they. "Like some old tree
Stuck in the bog belaboured by all seasons.
What's ailin' ye?" says they. Well, leave them be,
I have me reasons.
There's Cormac's Hugh come back with all his talk,
Spreadin' and spendin' like a king he is.
The people flockin' down the way he'll walk,
Till in the middle of a ring he is.
But where's that one whose face was like a rose
The day he went, betwixt her tears and teasin's?
Married these five years--gone where no man knows,
Faith, I've me reasons.
"A likely lad," they say. "What's ailin' you,
The gold and riches over there it is."
Sure, I'm not doubtin' what they say is true
They have me leave to hurry where it is.
'Tis I will hold the treasure that endures,
The while I'm listenin' to their talks and treasons.
Oh, Sheila girl, those two blue eyes of yours,
Faith, I've me reasons.
The Hock-Cart
by Robert Herrick

To the Right Honourable Mildmay, Earl of Westmoreland
Come, sons of summer, by whose toil
We are the lords of wine and oil;
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the ears of corn, now come,
And to the pipe sing Harvest Home.
Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
Dress'd up with all the country art.
See, here a malkin, there a sheet,
As spotless pure, as it is sweet;
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
(Clad, all, in linen, white as lilies.)
The harvest swains and wenches bound
For joy, to see the Hock-cart crown'd.
About the cart, hear, how the rout
Of rural younglings raise the shout;
Pressing before, some coming after,
Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
Some bless the cart; some kisses the sheaves;
Some prank them up with oaken leaves;
Some cross the fill-horse; some with great
Devotion, stroke the home-borne wheat;
While other rustics, less attent
To prayers than to merriment,
Run after with their breeches rent.
Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth,
Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth,
Ye shall see first the large and chief
Foundation of your feast, fat beef,
With upper stories, mutton, veal,
And bacon, (which makes full the meal)
With sev'ral dishes standing by,
As here a custard, there a pie,
And here all tempting frumenty.
And for to make the merry cheer,
If smirking wine be wanting here,
There's that which drowns all care, stout beer,
Which freely drink to your lord's health,
Then to the plough, (the common-wealth)
Next to your flails, your fanes, your fats;
Then to the maids with wheaten hats;
To the rough sickle and crook'd scythe,
Drink frolic boys, till all be blythe.
Feed and grow fat; and as ye eat,
Be mindful, that the lab'ring neat
(As you) may have their fill of meat
And know, besides, ye must revoke
The patient ox unto the yoke,
And all go back unto the plough
And harrow, (though they're hang'd up now.)
And, you must know, your lord's word's true,
Feed him ye must, whose food fills you.
And that this pleasure is like rain,
Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
But for to make it spring again.
The Wind
by Eugene Field

(THE TALE)
Cometh the Wind from the garden, fragrant and full of sweet singing--
Under my tree where I sit cometh the Wind to confession.
"Out in the garden abides the Queen of the beautiful Roses--
Her do I love and to-night wooed her with passionate singing;
Told I my love in those songs, and answer she gave in her blushes--
She shall be bride of the Wind, and she is the Queen of the Roses!"
"Wind, there is spice in thy breath; thy rapture hath fragrance Sabaean!"
"Straight from my wooing I come--my lips are bedewed with her kisses--
My lips and my song and my heart are drunk with the rapture of loving!"
(THE SONG)
The Wind he loveth the red, red Rose,
And he wooeth his love to wed:
Sweet is his song
The Summer long
As he kisseth her lips so red;
And he recketh naught of the ruin wrought
When the Summer of love is sped!
(AGAIN THE TALE)
Cometh the Wind from the garden, bitter with sorrow of winter.
"Wind, is thy love-song forgot? Wherefore thy dread lamentations?"
Sigheth and moaneth the Wind: "Out of the desolate garden
Come I from vigils with ghosts over the grave of the Summer!"
"Thy breath that was fragrant anon with rapture of music and loving,
It grieveth all things with its sting and the frost of its wailing displeasure."
The Wind maketh ever more moan and ever it giveth this answer:
"My heart it is numb with the cold of the love that was born of the Summer--
I come from the garden all white with the wrath and the sorrow of Winter;
I have kissed the low, desolate tomb where my bride in her loveliness lieth
And the voice of the ghost in my heart is the voice that forever outcrieth!"
(AGAIN THE SONG)
The Wind he waileth the red, red Rose
When the Summer of love is sped--
He waileth above
His lifeless love
With her shroud of snow o'erspread--
Crieth such things as a true heart brings
To the grave of its precious dead.
Come, Send Round The Wine.
by Thomas Moore

Come, send round the wine, and leave points of belief
To simpleton sages, and reasoning fools;
This moment's a flower too fair and brief,
To be withered and stained by the dust of the schools.
Your glass may be purple, and mine may be blue,
But, while they are filled from the same bright bowl,
The fool, who would quarrel for difference of hue,
Deserves not the comfort they shed o'er the soul.
Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side
In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?
Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,
If he kneel not before the same altar with me?
From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly,
To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?
No, perish the hearts, and the laws that try
Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this!
Fragment: Zephyrus The Awakener.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Come, thou awakener of the spirit's ocean,
Zephyr, whom to thy cloud or cave
No thought can trace! speed with thy gentle motion!
Dawgs Of War
by Henry Lawson

Comes the British bulldog first, solid as a log,
He's so ugly in repose that he's a handsome dog;
Full of mild benevolence as his years increase;
Silent as a china dog on the mantelpiece.
Rub his sides and point his nose,
Click your tongue and in he goes,
To the thick of Britain's foes,
Enemies behind him close,
(Silence for a while.)
Comes a very different dog, tell him at a glance.
Clipped and trimmed and frilled all round. Dandy dog of France.
(Always was a dandy dog, no matter what his age)
Now his every hair and frill is stiff as wire with rage.
Rub his sides and point his nose,
Click your tongue and in he goes,
While behind him France's foes
Reel and surge and pack and close.
(Silence for a while.)
Next comes Belgium's market dog, hard to realise.
Go-cart dog and barrow dog, he's a great surprise.
Dog that never hurt a cat, did no person harm;
Friendly, kindly, round and fat as a 'Johnny Darm.'
Rub his sides and point his nose,
Click your tongue and in he goes,
At the flank of Belgium's foes
Who could not behind him close,
(Silence for a while.)
Next comes Servia's mongrel pup, mongrel dawgs can fight;
Up or down, or down or up, whether wrong or right.
He was mad the other day, he is mad today,
Hustling round and raising dust in his backyard way.
Rub his sides and point his nose,
Click your tongue and in he goes,
'Twixt the legs of Servia's foes,
Biting tails and rearmost toes,
(Silence for a while.)
There are various terrier dawgs mixed up in the scrap,
Much too small for us to see, and too mad to yap.
Each one, on his frantic own, heard the row commence,
Tore with tooth and claw a hole in the backyard fence.
No one called, but in they go,
Dogs with many a nameless woe,
Tripping up their common foe,
(Silence for a while.)
From the snows of Canada, dragging box and bale,
Comes the sledge-dog toiling on, sore-foot from the trail.
He'll be useful in the trench, when the nose is blue,
Winter dog that knows the French and the English too.
Rub his sides and point his nose,
Click your tongue and in he goes,
At his father's country's foes,
And his mother's country's foes.
(Silence for a while.)
See, in sunny Southern France a dog that runs by sight,
Lean and yellow, sharp of nose, long of leg and light,
Silent and bloodthirsty, too; Distance in his eyes,
Leaping high to gain his view, the Kangaroo Dog flies!
Rub his sides and point his nose,
Click your tongue and up he goes,
Lands amongst his country's foes,
And his country's country's foes;
While they sway and while they close,
(Silence for a while.)
See across the early snow, far across the plain,
Where the clouds are grey and low and winter comes again;
By the sand-dune and the marsh, and forest black and dumb,
As dusky white as their winter's night, the Russian wolf-hounds come!
(Silence for a while.)
Comfort.
by Archibald Lampman

Comfort the sorrowful with watchful eyes
In silence, for the tongue cannot avail.
Vex not his wounds with rhetoric, nor the stale
Worn truths, that are but maddening mockeries
To him whose grief outmasters all replies.
Only watch near him gently; do but bring
The piteous help of silent ministering,
Watchful and tender. This alone is wise.
So shall thy presence and thine every motion,
The grateful knowledge of thy sad devotion
Melt out the passionate hardness of his grief,
And break the flood-gates of the pent-up soul.
He shall bow down beneath thy mute control,
And take thine hands, and weep, and find relief.
Coming Through The Rye.
by Robert Burns

Tune - "Coming through the rye."
I.
Coming through the rye, poor body,
Coming through the rye,
She draiglet a' her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye.
Jenny's a' wat, poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry;
She draiglet a' her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye.
II.
Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body
Need a body cry?
III.
Gin a body meet a body
Coming through the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body
Need the world ken?
Jenny's a' wat, poor body;
Jenny's seldom dry;
She draiglet a' her petticoatie,
Coming through the rye.
The Gipsy Girl
by Ralph Hodgson

'Come, try your skill, kind gentlemen,
A penny for three tries!'
Some threw and lost, some threw and won
A ten-a-penny prize.
She was a tawny gipsy girl,
A girl of twenty years,
I liked her for the lumps of gold
That jingled from her ears;
I liked the flaring yellow scarf
Bound loose about her throat,
I liked her showy purple gown
And flashy velvet coat.
A man came up, too loose of tongue,
And said no good to her;
She did not blush as Saxons do,
Or turn upon the cur;
She fawned and whined 'Sweet gentleman,
A penny for three tries!'
- But oh, the den of wild things in
The darkness of her eyes!