The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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A PASTORAL
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 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
94
A PASTORAL
[Surely Lucy love returns]
Surely Lucy love returns
Tho its meanings ha'n't reveald
Surely love her bosom burns
Which her coyness keeps consceald
Else what means that flushing cheek
When wi her I chance to be
& them looks that a'most speak
A secret warmth of love for me
Tho its meanings ha'n't reveald
Surely love her bosom burns
Which her coyness keeps consceald
Else what means that flushing cheek
When wi her I chance to be
& them looks that a'most speak
A secret warmth of love for me
Woud she where she valued not
Give such proofs of sweet esteem
Think what flowers for me shes got
What can this but fondness seem
When to try their pleasing powers
Swains for her cull every grove
When she takes my meaner flowers
What can guide the choice but love
Give such proofs of sweet esteem
Think what flowers for me shes got
What can this but fondness seem
When to try their pleasing powers
Swains for her cull every grove
When she takes my meaner flowers
What can guide the choice but love
Wa'n't love witnessd yester night
When two sheep had rambld out
Who but lucy set them right
The token told wi out a doubt
When others stare she turns & frowns
When I but glance a smile I see
When others talk she calls em clowns
But never says such words to me
When two sheep had rambld out
Who but lucy set them right
The token told wi out a doubt
When others stare she turns & frowns
When I but glance a smile I see
When others talk she calls em clowns
But never says such words to me
& when wi swains to love inclind
To bear her milk I often go
Tho they beg first she turns behind
& lingers till I ask her too
Oer stepping stones that cross the brooks
Who minds such trifles plainly see
In vain the shepherds prop their hooks
She always gi's her hand to me
To bear her milk I often go
Tho they beg first she turns behind
& lingers till I ask her too
95
Who minds such trifles plainly see
In vain the shepherds prop their hooks
She always gi's her hand to me
To day while chaps where standing bye
She wishd for roseys from the bower
The man too wishd was in her eye
Tho others flew to get the flower
& striving all they coud to please
When prickt wi thorns they left the tree
She never seemd consernd at these
But only turnd to caution me
She wishd for roseys from the bower
The man too wishd was in her eye
Tho others flew to get the flower
& striving all they coud to please
When prickt wi thorns they left the tree
She never seemd consernd at these
But only turnd to caution me
To day she carless view[d] the bark
Where many a swain had cut her name
Till wisperd which was collins mark
Her cheek was instant in a flame
In blushing beckons love did call
& courage seizd the chance the while
& tho I kissd her 'fore 'em all
Her worst rebukings wore a smile
Where many a swain had cut her name
Till wisperd which was collins mark
Her cheek was instant in a flame
In blushing beckons love did call
& courage seizd the chance the while
& tho I kissd her 'fore 'em all
Her worst rebukings wore a smile
| The early poems of John Clare | |