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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 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
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[Old winters limpt off & left spring her enjoyment]
Old winters limpt off & left spring her enjoyment
Her kibey heeld fros'es & ague bred snows
Gang setting their backs up else where for employment
& leave may at freedom her beauties to show
The bushes unfold in their light summer dresses
The daisey een ventures her bosom to bare
& sweet as a lover his darling caresses
The sun beams of morning seem fond to creep there
Her kibey heeld fros'es & ague bred snows
Gang setting their backs up else where for employment
& leave may at freedom her beauties to show
The bushes unfold in their light summer dresses
The daisey een ventures her bosom to bare
& sweet as a lover his darling caresses
The sun beams of morning seem fond to creep there
& love be not thou to the season contrary
Theres no fear of tempests to injure thee now
Then take thy light gown for the summer my mary
& let thy best bonnet sit light on thy brow
Make use of the season thoult never be you[n]ger
& spare me thy charms while thou hast em to spare
& throw thy old cloak by as usful no longer
But only old dames like thy mother to wear
Theres no fear of tempests to injure thee now
Then take thy light gown for the summer my mary
& let thy best bonnet sit light on thy brow
Make use of the season thoult never be you[n]ger
& spare me thy charms while thou hast em to spare
& throw thy old cloak by as usful no longer
But only old dames like thy mother to wear
& come in the groves wi thy shepherd to dantle
& oer thy soft bosom love nought pin or tie
Save a silk kerchief or white lawny mantle
Thro which thy white breas'es will heave on my eye
& there well seek seats were the leaves grow to close em
& there when Im wearyd wi playing wi thee
I sink down to sleep on thy white throbbing bosom
How sweet will my dreams on that soft p[i]llow be
& oer thy soft bosom love nought pin or tie
Save a silk kerchief or white lawny mantle
Thro which thy white breas'es will heave on my eye
& there well seek seats were the leaves grow to close em
& there when Im wearyd wi playing wi thee
I sink down to sleep on thy white throbbing bosom
How sweet will my dreams on that soft p[i]llow be
| The early poems of John Clare | |