 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
392
TO A FRIEND—IN ILLNESS
In friendships gentle name that claims akinWith poesys warmth its feelings to explain
Lady my feeble pen would fainly win
The welcome praises from thy lips again
Although the Muse shrinks from my hand the while
That with weak hold would yet her stay detain
Mingling sad tears with every withering smile
Dreaming of pleasures past & present pain—
Telling my sick heart that its hopes are vain
Wishing for health it neer may know again
Well I can better bear my sinking lot
Knowing that when my life shall cease to be
My very faults though known shall be forgot
& my poor memory find a friend in thee
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |