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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OH COME TO ME AT EVEN! |
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
OH COME TO ME AT EVEN!
O come to me i' the evening
And let us walk together
When talking is believing
And beautiful the weather
There's a siller bleb in the golden eye
O daisies by the thorn
On the wildings purest diamonds lie
The souls o' summer morn
But come to me i' the even Love
When the lark drops in the corn
And let us walk together
When talking is believing
And beautiful the weather
There's a siller bleb in the golden eye
O daisies by the thorn
On the wildings purest diamonds lie
The souls o' summer morn
But come to me i' the even Love
When the lark drops in the corn
O come to me at even dear
By the brambles arching shade
And hear the blackbird singing near
And be my own dear maid
O let me clasp thee round the waist
In evenings dewy air
And when so tenderly embraced
Confess my passion there
By the brambles arching shade
And hear the blackbird singing near
And be my own dear maid
710
In evenings dewy air
And when so tenderly embraced
Confess my passion there
Confess the passion of Mans love
In evenings dewy air
And kiss thee 'neath the heavens above
A maid surpassing fair
The birds gone bed on bush and tree
Where leaves keep off the dew
So come my angel love to me
We'll kiss and love so true
In evenings dewy air
And kiss thee 'neath the heavens above
A maid surpassing fair
The birds gone bed on bush and tree
Where leaves keep off the dew
So come my angel love to me
We'll kiss and love so true
I'll kiss thy neck so snowy white
Thy lips so dear to me
While the round moon with increasing light
Mounts up behind the tree
The dew lies on the woodbine flower
And on the wild rose too
Then in the spreading white thorn bower
I'll aye be kissing you
Thy lips so dear to me
While the round moon with increasing light
Mounts up behind the tree
The dew lies on the woodbine flower
And on the wild rose too
Then in the spreading white thorn bower
I'll aye be kissing you
| The later poems of John Clare | |