John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion Edited by R. K. R. Thornton & Anne Tibble |
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FIRST LOVES RECOLLECTIONS |
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 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
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FIRST LOVES RECOLLECTIONS
First love will with the heart remain
When all its hopes are bye
As frail rose blossoms still retain
Their fragrance till they die
& joys first dreams will haunt the mind
With shades from whence they sprung
As summer leaves the stems behind
On which springs blossoms hung
When all its hopes are bye
As frail rose blossoms still retain
Their fragrance till they die
& joys first dreams will haunt the mind
With shades from whence they sprung
As summer leaves the stems behind
On which springs blossoms hung
Mary I dare not call thee dear
Ive lost that right so long
Yet once again I vex thine ear
With memorys idle song
Had time & change not blotted out
The love of former days
Thou wert the last that I should doubt
Of pleasing with my praise
Ive lost that right so long
Yet once again I vex thine ear
With memorys idle song
Had time & change not blotted out
The love of former days
Thou wert the last that I should doubt
Of pleasing with my praise
When honied tokens from each tongue
Told with what truth we loved
How rapturous to thy lips I clung
Whilst nought but smiles reproved
But now methinks if one kind word
Were whispered in thine ear
Thoudst startle like an untamed bird
& blush with wilder fear
Told with what truth we loved
How rapturous to thy lips I clung
Whilst nought but smiles reproved
But now methinks if one kind word
Were whispered in thine ear
Thoudst startle like an untamed bird
& blush with wilder fear
How loath to part how fond to meet
Had we too used to be
At sunset with what eager feet
I hastened on to thee
Scarce nine days passed ere we met
In spring nay wintry weather
Now nine years suns have risen & set
Nor found us once together
Had we too used to be
At sunset with what eager feet
I hastened on to thee
Scarce nine days passed ere we met
In spring nay wintry weather
Now nine years suns have risen & set
Nor found us once together
Thy face was so familiar grown
Thyself so often bye
A moments memory when alone
Would bring thee to mine eye
But now my very dreams forget
That witching look to trace
Though there thy beauty lingers yet
It wears a stranger face
Thyself so often bye
A moments memory when alone
Would bring thee to mine eye
But now my very dreams forget
That witching look to trace
303
It wears a stranger face
I felt a pride to name thy name
But now that pride hath flown
My words een seem to blush for shame
That own I love thee on
I felt I then thy heart did share
Nor urged a binding vow
But much I doubt if thou couldst spare
One word of kindness now
But now that pride hath flown
My words een seem to blush for shame
That own I love thee on
I felt I then thy heart did share
Nor urged a binding vow
But much I doubt if thou couldst spare
One word of kindness now
& what is now my name to thee
Though once nought seemed so dear
Perhaps a jest in hours of glee
To please some idle ear
& yet like counterfeits with me
Impressions linger on
Though all the gilded finery
That passed for truth is gone
Though once nought seemed so dear
Perhaps a jest in hours of glee
To please some idle ear
& yet like counterfeits with me
Impressions linger on
Though all the gilded finery
That passed for truth is gone
Ere the world smiled upon my lays
A sweeter meed was mine
Thy blushing look of ready praise
Was raised at every line
But now methinks thy fervent love
Is changed to scorn severe
& songs that other hearts approve
Seem discord to thine ear
A sweeter meed was mine
Thy blushing look of ready praise
Was raised at every line
But now methinks thy fervent love
Is changed to scorn severe
& songs that other hearts approve
Seem discord to thine ear
When last thy gentle cheek I prest
& heard thee feign adieu
I little thought that seeming jest
Would prove a word so true
A fate like this hath oft befell
Een loftier hopes than ours
Spring bids full many buds to swell
That neer can grow to flowers
& heard thee feign adieu
I little thought that seeming jest
Would prove a word so true
A fate like this hath oft befell
Een loftier hopes than ours
Spring bids full many buds to swell
That neer can grow to flowers
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |