DanFosing/public-domain-poetry huggingface dataset:
My Youth
by Morris Rosenfeld

Come, beneath yon verdant branches,
Come, my own, with me!
Come, and there my soul will open
Secret doors to thee.
Yonder shalt thou learn the secrets
Deep within my breast,
Where my love upsprings eternal;
Come! with pain opprest,
Yonder all the truth I'll tell thee,
Tell it thee with tears...
(Ah, so long have we been parted,
Years of youth, sweet years!)
See'st thou the dancers floating
On a stream of sound?
There alone, the soul entrancing,
Happiness is found!
Magic music, hark! it calls us,
Ringing wild and sweet!
One, two, three!--beloved, haste thee,
Point thy dainty feet!
Now at last I feel that living
Is no foolish jest...
(O sweet years of youth departed,
Vanished with the rest!)
Fiddler, play a little longer!
Why this hurry, say?
I'm but half-way through a measure--
Yet a little play!
Smiling in her wreath of flowers
Is my love not fair?
See us in the charmed circle,
Flitting light as air!
Haste thee, loved one, for the music
Shall be hushed anon...
(O sweet years of youth departed,
Whither are ye gone?)
Gracious youth of mine, so quickly
Hath it come to this?
Lo, where flowed the golden river,
Yawns the black abyss!
Where, oh where is my beloved,
Where the wreath of flowers?
Where, oh where the merry fiddler,
Where those happy hours?
Shall I never hear the echoes
Of those songs again?
Oh, on what hills are they ringing,
O'er what sunny plain?
May not I from out the distance
Cast one backward glance
On that fair and lost existence,
Youth's sweet dalliance?
Foolish dreamer! Time hath snatched it,
And, tho' man implore,
Joys that he hath reaped and garnered
Bloom again no more!
To Anthea.
by Robert Herrick

Come, Anthea, know thou this,
Love at no time idle is;
Let's be doing, though we play
But at push-pin half the day;
Chains of sweet bents let us make
Captive one, or both, to take:
In which bondage we will lie,
Souls transfusing thus, and die.
The Beggar Speaks
by Vachel Lindsay

"What Mister Moon Said to Me."
Come, eat the bread of idleness,
Come, sit beside the spring:
Some of the flowers will keep awake,
Some of the birds will sing.
Come, eat the bread no man has sought
For half a hundred years:
Men hurry so they have no griefs,
Nor even idle tears:
They hurry so they have no loves:
They cannot curse nor laugh - 
Their hearts die in their youth with neither
Grave nor epitaph.
My bread would make them careless,
And never quite on time - 
Their eyelids would be heavy,
Their fancies full of rhyme:
Each soul a mystic rose-tree,
Or a curious incense tree:
.        .        .        .
Come, eat the bread of idleness,
Said Mister Moon to me.
Hip, Hip, Hurra!
by Thomas Moore

Come, fill round a bumper, fill up to the brim,
He who shrinks from a bumper I pledge not to him;
Here's the girl that each loves, be her eye of what hue,
Or lustre, it may, so her heart is but true.
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
Come charge high, again, boy, nor let the full wine
Leave a space in the brimmer, where daylight may shine;
Here's "the friends of our youth--tho' of some we're bereft,
May the links that are lost but endear what are left!"
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
Once more fill a bumper--ne'er talk of the hour;
On hearts thus united old Time has no power.
May our lives, tho', alas! like the wine of to-night,
They must soon have an end, to the last flow as bright.
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
Quick, quick, now, I'll give you, since Time's glass will run
Even faster than ours doth, three bumpers in one;
Here's the poet who sings--here's the warrior who fights--
Here's the, statesman who speaks, in the cause of men's rights!
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
Come, once more, a bumper!--then drink as you please,
Tho', who could fill half-way to toast such as these?
Here's our next joyous meeting--and oh when we meet,
May our wine be as bright and our union as sweet!
Charge! (drinks) hip, hip, hurra, hurra!
The Numbering Of The Clergy.
by Thomas Moore

PARODY ON SIR CHARLES HAN. WILLIAMS'S FAMOUS ODE,
"COME, CLOE, and GIVE ME SWEET KISSES."
"We want more Churches and more Clergymen."
Bishop of London's late Charge.
"rectorum numerum, terris pereuntibus augent."
Claudian in Eutrop.
Come, give us more Livings and Rectors,
For, richer no realm ever gave;
But why, ye unchristian objectors,
Do ye ask us how many we crave?[1]
Oh there can't be too many rich Livings
For souls of the Pluralist kind,
Who, despising old Crocker's misgivings,
To numbers can ne'er be confined.[2]
Count the cormorants hovering about,[3]
At the time their fish season sets in,
When these models of keen diners-out
Are preparing their beaks to begin.
Count the rooks that, in clerical dresses,
Flock round when the harvest's in play,
And not minding the farmer's distresses,
Like devils in grain peck away.
Go, number the locusts in heaven,[4]
On the way to some titheable shore;
And when so many Parsons you've given,
We still shall be craving for more.
Then, unless ye the Church would submerge, ye
Must leave us in peace to augment.
For the wretch who could number the Clergy,
With few will be ever content.
Inscription
by William Lisle Bowles

Come, and where these runnels fall,
Listen to my madrigal!
Far from all sounds of all the strife,
That murmur through the walks of life;
From grief, inquietude, and fears,
From scenes of riot, or of tears;
From passions, cankering day by day,
That wear the inmost heart away;
From pale Detraction's envious spite,
That worries where it fears to bite;
From mad Ambition's worldly chase,
Come, and in this shady place,
Be thine Contentment's humble joys,
And a life that makes no noise,
Save when fancy, musing long,
Turns to desultory song;[1]
And wakes some lonely melody,
Like the water dripping by.
Come, and where these runnels fall,
Listen to my madrigal!
A Drinking Song
by Eugene Field

Come, brothers, share the fellowship
We celebrate to-night;
There's grace of song on every lip
And every heart is light!
But first, before our mentor chimes
The hour of jubilee,
Let's drink a health to good old times,
And good times yet to be!
Clink, clink, clink!
Merrily let us drink!
There's store of wealth
And more of health
In every glass, we think.
Clink, clink, clink!
To fellowship we drink!
And from the bowl
No genial soul
In such an hour can shrink.
And you, oh, friends from west and east
And other foreign parts,
Come share the rapture of our feast,
The love of loyal hearts;
And in the wassail that suspends
All matters burthensome,
We'll drink a health to good old friends
And good friends yet to come.
Clink, clink, clink!
To fellowship we drink!
And from the bowl
No genial soul
In such an hour will shrink.
Clink, clink, clink!
Merrily let us drink!
There's fellowship
In every sip
Of friendship's brew, we think.
Upon A Delaying Lady
by Robert Herrick

Come, come away
Or let me go;
Must I here stay
Because you're slow,
And will continue so;
Troth, lady, no.
I scorn to be
A slave to state;
And since I'm free,
I will not wait,
Henceforth at such a rate,
For needy fate.
If you desire
My spark should glow,
The peeping fire
You must blow;
Or I shall quickly grow
To frost, or snow.
Translations. - Pentecost. (Luther's Song-Book.)
by George MacDonald

I.
Come, God, Creator, Holy Ghost,
Visit the heart of all thy men;
Fill them with grace the way thou know'st:
What was thine, make so again;
Our Comforter to soothe or chide;
The blessed gift of highest God!
A ghostly chrism to us applied,
Live streams--fire--love spread abroad!
O kindle in our minds a light;
Give in our hearts love's glowing gift;
Our weak flesh, known to thee aright,
With thy strength and grace uplift.
In giving gifts thou art sevenfold--
The finger thou on God's right hand!
His word by thee right soon is told
With clov'n tongues in every land.
Drive far the cunning of the foe;
Thy grace bring peace and make us whole,
That we glad after thee may go,
And shun that which hurts the soul.
Teach us to know the Father right,
And Jesus Christ, his son, that so
We may with faith be filled quite,
Spirit of both, thee to know!
Praise God the Father, and the Son
Who from the dead arose in power;
Like praise to the Consoling One,
Evermore and every hour! Amen.
II.
Come, Holy Spirit, Lord and God,
Fill full with thine own gracious good
Thy faithful ones' heart, mind, desire!
Light in them of thy love the fire.
O Lord, through thy light, flashing fast,
Into the faith thou gathered hast
People of all tongues under heaven:
That to thy glory, Lord, be given!
Halleluja! Halleluja!
Thou holy light, retreat from strife,
Cause shine on us the word of life,
That we the truth of God gather,
Call him heartily our Father.
O Lord, protect us from strange lore,
That we for teachers seek no more,
But with true faith Jesus solely,
And him with all our might trust wholly:
Halleluja! Halleluja!
Thou holy fire, thou comfort sweet,
Now help us; with good cheer us meet;
That in thy service nought shake us,
Trouble never leave thee make us.
O Lord, by thy might us prepare,
And make the weak flesh strong to bear,
That we strive[1] like knights campaigning,
Through death and life to thee straining:
Halleluja! Halleluja!
[Footnote 1: The Scotch warsle would be perfect.]
The Squatter's Man
by Banjo Paterson (Andrew Barton)

Come, all ye lads an' list to me,
That's left your homes an' crossed the sea,
To try your fortune, bound or free,
All in this golden land.
For twelve long months I had to pace,
Humping my swag with a cadging face,
Sleeping in the bush, like the sable race,
As in my song you'll understand.
Unto this country I did come,
A regular out-and-out new chum.
I then abhorred the sight of rum'
Teetotal was my plan.
But soon I learned to wet one eye'
Misfortune oft-times made me sigh.
To raise fresh funds I was forced to fly,
And be a squatter's man.
Soon at a station I appeared.
I saw the squatter with his beard,
And up to him I boldly steered,
With my swag and billy-can.
I said, 'Kind sir, I want a job!'
Said he, 'Do you know how to snob
Or can you break in a bucking cob?'
Whilst my figure he well did scan.
''Tis now I want a useful cove
To stop at home and not to rove.
The scamps go about'a regular drove'
I 'spose you're one of the clan?
But I'll give ten'ten, sugar an' tea;
Ten bob a week, if you'll suit me,
And very soon I hope you'll be
A handy squatter's man.
'At daylight you must milk the cows,
Make butter, cheese, an' feed the sows,
Put on the kettle, the cook arouse,
And clean the family shoes.
The stable an' sheep yard clean out,
And always answer when we shout,
With 'Yes, ma'am,' and    'No, sir,' mind your mouth;
And my youngsters don't abuse.
'You must fetch wood an' water, bake an' boil,
Act as butcher when we kill;
The corn an' taters you must hill,
Keep the garden spick and span.
You must not scruple in the rain
To take to market all the grain.
Be sure you come sober back again
To be a squatter's man.'
He sent me to an old bark hut,
Inhabited by a greyhound slut,
Who put her fangs through my poor fut,
And, snarling, off she ran.
So once more I'm looking for a job,
Without a copper in my fob.
With Ben Hall or Gardiner I'd rather rob,
Than be a squatter's man.
The Beautiful Land Of Nod.
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Come, cuddle your head on my shoulder, dear,
Your head like the golden-rod,
And we will go sailing away from here
To the beautiful Land of Nod.
Away from life's hurry and flurry and worry,
Away from earth's shadows and gloom,
To a world of fair weather we'll float off together,
Where roses are always in bloom.
Just shut your eyes and fold your hands,
Your hands like the leaves of a rose,
And we will go sailing to those fair lands
That never an atlas shows.
On the North and the West they are bounded by rest,
On the South and the East, by dreams;
'Tis the country ideal, where nothing is real,
But everything only seems.
Just drop down the curtains of your dear eyes
Those eyes like a bright bluebell,
And we will sail out under starlit skies,
To the land where the fairies dwell.
Down the river of sleep our barque shall sweep,
Till it reaches that mystical Isle
Which no man hath seen, but where all have been,
And there we will pause awhile.
I will croon you a song as we float along
To that shore that is blessed of God,
Then, ho! for that fair land, we're off for that rare land,
That beautiful Land of Nod.
Ceremonies For Christmas
by Robert Herrick

Come, bring with a noise,
My merry, merry boys,
The Christmas Log to the firing;
While my good Dame, she
Bids ye all be free;
And drink to your heart's desiring.
With the last year's brand
Light the new block, and
For good success in his spending,
On your Psaltries play,
That sweet luck may
Come while the log is a-tinding.
Drink now the strong beer,
Cut the white loaf here,
The while the meat is a-shredding;
For the rare mince-pie
And the plums stand by
To fill the paste that's a-kneading.
Invocation To Sleep.
by Thomas Gent

Come, gentle sleep! thou soft restorer, come,
And close these wearied eyes, by grief oppress'd;
For one short hour, be this thy peaceful home,
And bid the sighs that rend my bosom rest.
Depriv'd of thee, at midnight's awful hour,
Oft have I listen'd to the angry wind;
While busy memory, with tyrant pow'r,
Would picture faded joys, or friends unkind.
Or tell of her who rear'd my helpless years,
But torn away, ere yet I knew her worth;
How oft, tho' nature still the thought endears,
Has my worn bosom heav'd its tribute forth.
Come, then, soft pow'r, whose balmy roses fall
As heavenly manna sweet, or morning dew;
Beneath thy wings, my troubled thoughts recall,
And, haply, lend them some serener hue.
Bill And Joe
by Oliver Wendell Holmes

Come, dear old comrade, you and I
Will steal an hour from days gone by,
The shining days when life was new,
And all was bright with morning dew,
The lusty days of long ago,
When you were Bill and I was Joe.
Your name may flaunt a titled trail
Proud as a cockerel's rainbow tail,
And mine as brief appendix wear
As Tam O'Shanter's luckless mare;
To-day, old friend, remember still
That I am Joe and you are Bill.
You've won the great world's envied prize,
And grand you look in people's eyes,
With H O N. and L L. D.
In big brave letters, fair to see, - 
Your fist, old fellow! off they go! - 
How are you, Bill? How are you, Joe?
You've worn the judge's ermined robe;
You 've taught your name to half the globe;
You've sung mankind a deathless strain;
You've made the dead past live again
The world may call you what it will,
But you and I are Joe and Bill.
The chaffing young folks stare and say
"See those old buffers, bent and gray, - 
They talk like fellows in their teens!
Mad, poor old boys! That's what it means," - 
And shake their heads; they little know
The throbbing hearts of Bill and Joe! - 
How Bill forgets his hour of pride,
While Joe sits smiling at his side;
How Joe, in spite of time's disguise,
Finds the old schoolmate in his eyes, - 
Those calm, stern eyes that melt and fill
As Joe looks fondly up at Bill.
Ah, pensive scholar, what is fame?
A fitful tongue of leaping flame;
A giddy whirlwind's fickle gust,
That lifts a pinch of mortal dust;
A few swift years, and who can show
Which dust was Bill and which was Joe?
The weary idol takes his stand,
Holds out his bruised and aching hand,
While gaping thousands come and go, - 
How vain it seems, this empty show!
Till all at once his pulses thrill; - 
'T is poor old Joe's "God bless you, Bill!"
And shall we breathe in happier spheres
The names that pleased our mortal ears;
In some sweet lull of harp and song
For earth-born spirits none too long,
Just whispering of the world below
Where this was Bill and that was Joe?
No matter; while our home is here
No sounding name is half so dear;
When fades at length our lingering day,
Who cares what pompous tombstones say?
Read on the hearts that love us still,
Hic jacet Joe. Hic jacet Bill.
Venetian Serenade.
by George Pope Morris

Come, come to me, love!
Come, love!--Arise
And shame the bright stars
With the light of thine eyes;
Look out from thy lattice--
Oh, lady-bird, hear!
A swan on the water--
My gondola's near!
Come, come to me, love!
Come, love!--My bride!
O'er crystal in moonbeams
We'll tranquilly glide:
In the dip of the oar
A melody flows
Sweet as the nightingale
Sings to the rose.
Come, come to me, love!
Come, love!--The day
Brings warder and cloister!
Away, then--away!
Oh, haste to thy lover!
Not yon star above
Is more true to heaven
Then he to his love!
Lament I
by Jan Kochanowski

Come, Heraclitus and Simonides,
Come with your weeping and sad elegies:
Ye griefs and sorrows, come from all the lands
Wherein ye sigh and wail and wring your hands:
Gather ye here within my house today
And help me mourn my sweet, whom in her May
Ungodly Death hath ta'en to his estate,
Leaving me on a sudden desolate.
'Tis so a serpent glides on some shy nest
And, of the tiny nightingales possessed,
Doth glut its throat, though, frenzied with her fear,
The mother bird doth beat and twitter near
And strike the monster, till it turns and gapes
To swallow her, and she but just escapes.
"'Tis vain to weep," my friends perchance will say.
Dear God, is aught in life not vain, then? Nay,
Seek to lie soft, yet thorns will prickly be:
The life of man is naught but vanity.
Ah, which were better, then - to seek relief
In tears, or sternly strive to conquer grief?
Sleep.
by Marietta Holley

Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night,
Come with the stars and the white moonbeams,
Come with your train of handmaids bright,
Blessed and beautiful dreams.
Bring the exile to his home again,
Let him catch the gleam of its low white wall;
Let his wife cling to his neck and weep,
And his children come at their father's call.
Give to the mother the child she lost,
Laid from her heart to a clay-cold bed;
Let its breath float over her tear-wet cheek,
And her cold heart warm 'neath its bright young head.
Take the sinner's hand and lead him back
To his sinless youth and his mother's knee;
Let him kneel again 'neath her tender look,
And murmur the prayer of his infancy.
Lead the aged into that wondrous clime,
Home of their youth and land of their bliss;
Let them forget in that beautiful world,
The sin and the sorrow of this.
And gently lead my love, my own,
Tenderly clasp her snow-white hand,
Wrap her in garments of soft repose,
And lead her into your mystic land.
Let your fairest handmaids bow at her feet,
Her path o'er your loveliest roses be;
And let all the flowers with their perfumed lips
Whisper of me - of me.
Come, gentle sleep, with the holy night,
Come with the stars and the white moonbeams,
Come with your train of handmaids bright,
Blessed and beautiful dreams.
Ashly Mere.
by Madison Julius Cawein

Come! look in the shadowy water here,
The stagnant water of Ashly Mere:
Where the stirless depths are dark but clear,
What is the thing that lies there? 
A lily-pod half sunk from sight?
Or spawn of the toad all water-white?
Or ashen blur of the moon's wan light?
Or a woman's face and eyes there?
Now lean to the water a listening ear,
The haunted water of Ashly Mere:
What is the sound that you seem to hear
In the ghostly hush of the deeps there? 
A withered reed that the ripple lips?
Or a night-bird's wing that the surface whips?
Or the rain in a leaf that drips and drips?
Or a woman's voice that weeps there?
Now look and listen! but draw not near
The lonely water of Ashly Mere! 
For so it happens this time each year
As you lean by the mere and listen:
And the moaning voice I understand, 
For oft I have watched it draw to land,
And lift from the water a ghastly hand
And a face whose eyeballs glisten.
And this is the reason why every year
To the hideous water of Ashly Mere
I come when the woodland leaves are sear,
And the autumn moon hangs hoary:
For here by the mere was wrought a wrong ...
But the old, old story is over long 
And woman is weak and man is strong ...
And the mere's and mine is the story.
The Girls We Might Have Wed.
by Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

Come, brothers, let us sing a dirge, - 
A dirge for myriad chances dead;
In grief your mournful accents merge:
Sing, sing the girls we might have wed!
Sweet lips were those we never pressed
In love that never lost the dew
In sunlight of a love confessed, - 
Kind were the girls we never knew!
Sing low, sing low, while in the glow
Of fancy's hour those forms we trace,
Hovering around the years that go;
Those years our lives can ne'er replace!
Sweet lips are those that never turn
A cruel word; dear eyes that lead
The heart on in a blithe concern;
White hand of her we did not wed;
Fair hair or dark, that falls along
A form that never shrinks with time;
Bright image of a realm of song,
Standing beside our years of prime; - 
When you shall go, then may we know
The heart is dead, the man is old.
Life can no other charm bestow
When girls we might have loved turn cold!
Song.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Come [Harriet]! sweet is the hour,
Soft Zephyrs breathe gently around,
The anemone's night-boding flower,
Has sunk its pale head on the ground.
'Tis thus the world's keenness hath torn,
Some mild heart that expands to its blast,
'Tis thus that the wretched forlorn,
Sinks poor and neglected at last. -
The world with its keenness and woe,
Has no charms or attraction for me,
Its unkindness with grief has laid low,
The heart which is faithful to thee.
The high trees that wave past the moon,
As I walk in their umbrage with you,
All declare I must part with you soon,
All bid you a tender adieu! -
Then [Harriet]! dearest farewell,
You and I love, may ne'er meet again;
These woods and these meadows can tell
How soft and how sweet was the strain. -
APRIL, 1810.
A Legend Of St. Valentine.
by George Augustus Baker, Jr.

Come! Why, halloa, that you, Jack?
How's the world been using you?
Want your pipe? it's in the jar 
Think I might be looking blue.
Maud's been breaking off with me,
Fact see here I've got the ring.
That's the note she sent it in;
Read it soothing sort of thing.
Jack, you know I write sometimes 
Must have read some things of mine.
Well, I thought I'd just send Maud
Something for a valentine.
So I ground some verses out
In the softest kind of style,
Full of love, and that, you know 
Bothered me an awful while;
Quite a heavy piece of work.
So when I had got them done 
Why, I thought them much too good
Just to waste that way on one.
Jack, I told you, didn't I,
All about that black-eyed girl
Up in Stratford last July 
Oh! you know; you saw her curl?
Well, old fellow, she's the one
That this row is all about,
For I sent her who'd have thought
Maud would ever find it out 
Those same verses, word for word 
Hang it, man! you needn't roar 
"Splendid joke!" well, so I thought 
No, don't think so any more.
Yesterday, you know it rained,
I'd been up late at a ball 
Didn't know what else to do 
Went up and made Maud a call,
Found some other girl there, too,
They were playing a duet.
"Fred, my cousin, Nelly Deane," 
Yes, Jack, there was my brunette;
You should just have seen me, Jack 
Now, old fellow, please don't laugh,
I feel bad about it fact 
And I really can't stand chaff.
Well, I tried to talk to Maud,
There was Nell, though, sitting by;
Every now and then she'd laugh,
Sure I can't imagine why.
Maud would read that beastly poem,
Nell's eyes said in just one glance,
"Wont I make you pay for this,
If I ever get the chance!"
Some one came and rang the bell,
Just a note for Nell, by post.
Jack, I saw my monogram 
I'd have rather seen a ghost.
Yes her verses I suppose
That her folks had sent them down 
Couldn't get up there, you know 
Till she'd left and come to town.
Nelly looked them quickly through 
Laughed by Jove, I thought she'd choke.
"Maud he'll kill me dear! oh, dear! 
Read that; isn't it a joke?"
Maud glanced through them sank right down
On the sofa hid her face 
"Crying!" not much laughing, Jack 
Don't think she's a hopeless case.
I just grabbed my hat and left 
Only wish I'd gone before.
How they laughed! I heard them, Jack 
Till I got outside the door.
There, confession's done me good,
I can never win her back,
So I'll calmly let her slide 
Pass the ash-cup, will you, Jack.