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 |  |
TO AN INFANT DAUGHTER
Sweet gem of infant fairy flowers
Thy smiles on lifes unclosing hours
Like sun beams lost in summer showers
They wake my fears
When reason knows its sweets & sours
Theyll change to tears
Thy smiles on lifes unclosing hours
Like sun beams lost in summer showers
They wake my fears
When reason knows its sweets & sours
Theyll change to tears
God help thee little sensless thing
Thou daisey like of early spring
Of ambushd winters hornet sting
Hast yet to tell
Thou knowst not what tomorrows bring—
I wish thee well
Thou daisey like of early spring
Of ambushd winters hornet sting
Hast yet to tell
Thou knowst not what tomorrows bring—
I wish thee well
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But thou art come & soon or late
Tis thine to meet the frowns of fate
The harpy grin of envys hate
& mermaid smiles
Of worldly follys luring bait
That youth beguiles
Tis thine to meet the frowns of fate
The harpy grin of envys hate
& mermaid smiles
Of worldly follys luring bait
That youth beguiles
& much I wish what ere may be
The lot my child that falls to thee
Nature neer may let thee see
Her glass betimes
But keep thee from my failings free
No itch at ryhmes
The lot my child that falls to thee
Nature neer may let thee see
Her glass betimes
But keep thee from my failings free
No itch at ryhmes
L---d help thee in thy coming years
If thy mad fathers picture 'pears
Predominant—his feeling fears
& gingling starts
Id freely now gi vent to tears
To ease my heart
If thy mad fathers picture 'pears
Predominant—his feeling fears
& gingling starts
Id freely now gi vent to tears
To ease my heart
May thou unknown to ryhming bother
Be ignorant as is thy mother
& in thy manners such another
Save sins nigh guest
& then wi scaping this & tother
Thou mayst be blest
Be ignorant as is thy mother
& in thy manners such another
Save sins nigh guest
& then wi scaping this & tother
Thou mayst be blest
L---d knows my heart I wish thee much
& may my feeling ach[e]s & such
The pains I meet in follys clutch
Be never thine—
Child its a tender string to touch
That sounds ‘thourt mine’
& may my feeling ach[e]s & such
The pains I meet in follys clutch
Be never thine—
Child its a tender string to touch
That sounds ‘thourt mine’
| The early poems of John Clare | |