 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
313
LOVE
Love though it is not chill & cold
But burning like eternal fire
It is not of approaches bold
Which gay dramatic tastes admire
O timid love more fond then free
In dareing song is ill pourtrayed
Where as in war the devotee
By valour wins each captive maid
But burning like eternal fire
It is not of approaches bold
Which gay dramatic tastes admire
O timid love more fond then free
In dareing song is ill pourtrayed
Where as in war the devotee
By valour wins each captive maid
Where hearts are prest to hearts in glee
As they could tell each others minds
Where ruby lips are kissed as free
As flowers are by the summer winds
—No gentle love that timid dream
Whose hopes & fears at foil & play
Work like a skiff against the stream
Where it loves most finds least to say
As they could tell each others minds
Where ruby lips are kissed as free
As flowers are by the summer winds
—No gentle love that timid dream
Whose hopes & fears at foil & play
Work like a skiff against the stream
Where it loves most finds least to say
It lives in blushes & in sighs
In hopes for which no words are found
Thoughts dare not look but in the eyes
The tongue is left without a sound
The pert & forward things that dare
Their whispers in each others ear
Feel no more then their shadows there
Mere things of form with nought of fear
In hopes for which no words are found
Thoughts dare not look but in the eyes
The tongue is left without a sound
The pert & forward things that dare
Their whispers in each others ear
Feel no more then their shadows there
Mere things of form with nought of fear
True passion that so burns within
Is timid as the doves disguise
Tis for the murder aiming hawk
To dart at every bird that flies
True love it is no daring bird
But like the little timid wren
That in the new leaved thorns of spring
Shrinks further from the sight of men
Is timid as the doves disguise
Tis for the murder aiming hawk
To dart at every bird that flies
True love it is no daring bird
But like the little timid wren
That in the new leaved thorns of spring
Shrinks further from the sight of men
The idol of its musing mind
The worship of its lonely hour
Love wooes her in the summer wind
It tells her name to every flower
But in her sight no open word
Escapes Loves passion to declare
The sighs by beautys majic stirred
Are all that speak its passion there
The worship of its lonely hour
Love wooes her in the summer wind
It tells her name to every flower
But in her sight no open word
Escapes Loves passion to declare
314
Are all that speak its passion there
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |