Come up from the fields father, here's a letter from our Pete,
And come to the front door mother, here's a letter from thy dear son.

Lo, 'tis autumn,
Lo, where the trees, deeper green, yellower and redder,
Cool and sweeten Ohio's villages with leaves fluttering in the moderate wind,
Where apples ripe in the orchards hang and grapes on the trellis'd vines,
(Smell you the smell of the grapes on the vines?
Smell you the buckwheat where the bees were lately buzzing?)

Her work was to count linings —
the day's seconds in dozens.

1. Come unto me, when shadows darkly gather, When the sad
2. Large are the mansions in thy Father's dwelling, Glad are the
heart is weary and distressed, Seeking for comfort
homes that sorrows never dim; Sweet are the harps in
from your heavenly Father, Come unto me, and I will give you rest.
holy music swelling, Soft are the tones which raise the heavenly hymn.

3. There, like an Eden blossoming in gladness,
Bloom the fair flowers the earth too rudely pressed;
Come unto me, all ye who droop in sadness,
Come unto me, and I will give you rest.

“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,

Come to me God; but do not come
To me, as to the gen'rall Doome,
In power; or come Thou in that state,
When Thou Thy Lawes didst promulgate,
When as the Mountaine quak'd for dread,
And sullen clouds bound up his head.
No, lay thy stately terrours by,
To talke with me familiarly;
For if Thy thunder-claps I heare,
I shall lesse swoone, then die for feare.
Speake thou of love and I'le reply
By way of Epithalamie ,
Or sing of mercy , and I'le suit
To it my Violl and my Lute:
Thus let Thy lips but love distill,

Come to me, angel of the weary hearted!
Since they my loved ones, breathed upon by thee,
Unto thy realms unreal have departed,
I too may rest — even I: ah! haste to me.

I dare not bid thy darker, colder brother
With his more welcome offering appear,
For those sweet lips at morn will murmur, " Mother, "
And who shall soothe them if I be not near?

Bring me no dream, dear Sleep, though visions glowing
With hues of heaven thy wand enchanted shows;
I ask no glorious boon of thy bestowing,

Come to guard us, come to bless us,
Holy, mystic sisters three!
On our bowed heads pour a chrism,
Daughters of the Deity.

Crown us with your triple chaplet,
Roses red and lilies fair,
Dark green leaves entwined around them,
Fragrant with May's tender air.

We are waiting — suppliants needy —
For your beauteous three-fold gift,
That to heights of calm completeness
Our beseeching souls can lift.

How can we without your favor
Make of life what it should be?
Come then, guard us, aid and bless us,

Come, Thou almighty King,
Help us Thy name to sing,
Help us to praise:
Father All-glorious,
O'er all victorious,
Come, and reign over us,
Ancient of Days.

Come, Thou incarnate Word,
Gird on Thy mighty sword,
Our prayer attend:
Come, and Thy people bless,
And give Thy word success:
Spirit of holiness,
On us descend.

Come, holy Comforter
Thy sacred witness bear
In this glad hour:
Thou who almighty art,
Now rule in every heart,
And ne'er from us depart,
Spirit of power.

Come then, and like two Doves with silv'rie wings,
Let our soules flie to' th' shades, where ever springs
Sit smiling in the Meads; where Balme and Oile,
Roses and Cassia crown the untill'd soyle.
Where no disease raignes, or infection comes
To blast the Aire, but Amber-greece and Gums.
This, that, and ev'ry Thicket doth transpire
More sweet, then Storax from the hallowed fire:
Where ev'ry tree a wealthy issue beares
Of fragrant Apples, blushing Plums, or Peares:
And all the shrubs, with sparkling spangles, shew

Come the little clouds out of the Ice-Caves,
Bringing rain and snow.
They come because we call them;
They come because we ask them;
They come because the Spider-Woman loves us;
Come the little clouds out of the Northland!

Our yellow meal we throw to the sky.
It is our offering to the gods.

We have placed the images of clay,
Shaped like desert toads, by the water-courses,
To guide the water along the canals,
That it may flow over our fields.
Come the little clouds out of the Ice-Caves,
To bring us rain for our harvests!