The later poems of John Clare 1837-1864 ... General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
SONG
[Sweet summer breath your choicest gales]
Sweet summer breath your choicest gales
To charm my lovers ear
Ye zephers wake your choicest tales
Where e'er she shall appear
& gently wave the meadow grass
Where soft she sets her feet
For my love is a country lass
& bonny as shes sweet
To charm my lovers ear
Ye zephers wake your choicest tales
Where e'er she shall appear
& gently wave the meadow grass
Where soft she sets her feet
For my love is a country lass
& bonny as shes sweet
The hedges only seem to mourn
The willow boughs to sigh
Though sunshine on the meads sojourn
To cheer me where I lye
The blackbird in the hedge row thorn
Sings loud his summer lay
He seems to sing both eve & morn
She wanders here to day
The willow boughs to sigh
Though sunshine on the meads sojourn
To cheer me where I lye
The blackbird in the hedge row thorn
Sings loud his summer lay
He seems to sing both eve & morn
She wanders here to day
331
The skylark in the summer cloud
One cheering anthem sings
& Mary where she wanders out
Can watch his trembling wings
Let zephers throw their sighs away
When woman comes abroad
To cheer the landscape all the day
Such glooms are ill bestowed
One cheering anthem sings
& Mary where she wanders out
Can watch his trembling wings
Let zephers throw their sighs away
When woman comes abroad
To cheer the landscape all the day
Such glooms are ill bestowed
I'll wander down the river way,
And wild flower poesys make;
For nature wispers all the day,—
She can't her promise break.
The meads already wear a smile;
The river runs more bright;
For down the path and o'er the stile,—
The maiden comes in sight.
And wild flower poesys make;
For nature wispers all the day,—
She can't her promise break.
The meads already wear a smile;
The river runs more bright;
For down the path and o'er the stile,—
The maiden comes in sight.
The scene begins to look divine,
We'll by the river walk;
Her arm already seems in mine,
And fancy hears her talk:
A vision this of early love,
The meadow, river,—rill.—
Scenes where I walked with Mary Dove,
Are in my memory still.
We'll by the river walk;
Her arm already seems in mine,
And fancy hears her talk:
A vision this of early love,
The meadow, river,—rill.—
Scenes where I walked with Mary Dove,
Are in my memory still.
| The later poems of John Clare | |