 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
LOVE IN YOUTH
Words paint not womans beauty springs young hour
Grow flowers to paint her she herselfs a flower
Fairer then aught but blossoms & they bear
But faint remembrance to a thing so fair
The red rose in her cheeks doth blushing lie
Lit up like sunshine by her laughing eye
& the white lilys on her beating breast
Spread warm & nuzzling like two doves at rest
Her lips are two twin roseys which the morn
Kisses & leaves its dewy pearls thereon
Smiles hang about them as if loath to give
Room to those frowns that bade hope cease to live
& joy in all youths motions seem to say
Beauty & youth here make their holiday
Grow flowers to paint her she herselfs a flower
Fairer then aught but blossoms & they bear
But faint remembrance to a thing so fair
The red rose in her cheeks doth blushing lie
Lit up like sunshine by her laughing eye
& the white lilys on her beating breast
Spread warm & nuzzling like two doves at rest
Her lips are two twin roseys which the morn
Kisses & leaves its dewy pearls thereon
Smiles hang about them as if loath to give
Room to those frowns that bade hope cease to live
& joy in all youths motions seem to say
Beauty & youth here make their holiday
435
Thou page of [living] beauty can the eye
Find aught so rich as natures works supply
With some the person—some the mind adds grace
Though rosey cheeks ill suits an harlots face
—Thine is the beauty such as all esteems
With heart as innoscent as infants dreams
Pure as the virgin flower untouched & free
From the bold freedom of the amorous bee
Thy voice was rich as fame thy praise een now
Comes like the glory round an angels brow
For fame is nothing worth the muses care
Unless to grace it womans love be there
& praise is but a shadow cloathed in bays
Without the honey dew of beautys praise
Find aught so rich as natures works supply
With some the person—some the mind adds grace
Though rosey cheeks ill suits an harlots face
—Thine is the beauty such as all esteems
With heart as innoscent as infants dreams
Pure as the virgin flower untouched & free
From the bold freedom of the amorous bee
Thy voice was rich as fame thy praise een now
Comes like the glory round an angels brow
For fame is nothing worth the muses care
Unless to grace it womans love be there
& praise is but a shadow cloathed in bays
Without the honey dew of beautys praise
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |