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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[When that the even is hanging so glooming]
When that the even is hanging so glooming
& the grey mist is surrounding the urn
& the streakt woodbine night[s] bosom perfuming
Closes its blossoms till mornings return
Mary be thou wi thy milking delaying
Hints are loves language thou tellst what they mean
In the sweet gloom of the welcome night straying
To kiss oer our raptures in silence unseen
& the grey mist is surrounding the urn
& the streakt woodbine night[s] bosom perfuming
Closes its blossoms till mornings return
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Hints are loves language thou tellst what they mean
In the sweet gloom of the welcome night straying
To kiss oer our raptures in silence unseen
Now the night bird at his singing is seated
While the pale moon seems delighted to hear
& thy swain roams wi one wish uncompleated
The pleasure of meeting his mary so dear
Neath thy old spotted cow love be thou singing
Chanting thy love ballads over wi glee
Sweet tho the nightingales songs the wood ringing
Sweeter will thine be as I listen thee
While the pale moon seems delighted to hear
& thy swain roams wi one wish uncompleated
The pleasure of meeting his mary so dear
Neath thy old spotted cow love be thou singing
Chanting thy love ballads over wi glee
Sweet tho the nightingales songs the wood ringing
Sweeter will thine be as I listen thee
Now the bent flower neath eves burthen is laden
& the ripe rose on its stem doth recline
Just as Ive seen the flushd cheek of the maiden
Bowing unwilling a kiss to resign
Down in the valley do thou me be meeting
Thy first broken promise let me never see
Still let thy fond heart in sincerity beating
Be free from all sighs but whats breathed for me
& the ripe rose on its stem doth recline
Just as Ive seen the flushd cheek of the maiden
Bowing unwilling a kiss to resign
Down in the valley do thou me be meeting
Thy first broken promise let me never see
Still let thy fond heart in sincerity beating
Be free from all sighs but whats breathed for me
| The early poems of John Clare | |