The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
 | I. |
|
|
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| II. |
|
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
SONG
|
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
SONG
[The war is of every kind comfort bereft me]
The war is of every kind comfort bereft me
Sin' deaths horrid letter the seas wafted oer
To tell Jemmy dead—O my hopes they have left me
I never shall meet wi my Jemmy no more
O war so far from me to lay him asleeping
& o such fond love in deaths arms to lay cold
O war thou wert deaf to a fond maidens weeping
A heart of hard marble thy bosom must hold
Sin' deaths horrid letter the seas wafted oer
To tell Jemmy dead—O my hopes they have left me
I never shall meet wi my Jemmy no more
O war so far from me to lay him asleeping
& o such fond love in deaths arms to lay cold
O war thou wert deaf to a fond maidens weeping
A heart of hard marble thy bosom must hold
443
My Jemmy is gone & my hopes all have followd
Nought sweetens a thought of his coming again
The bower blooms as usual that parting vows hallowd
But the youth that last got me the posey is slain
& the eve dew may drop on the flower by noon heated
& the dewdrops of even the flower may restore
But the loves of that bower shall be never repeated
& the flower by that hand will be gatherd no more
Nought sweetens a thought of his coming again
The bower blooms as usual that parting vows hallowd
But the youth that last got me the posey is slain
& the eve dew may drop on the flower by noon heated
& the dewdrops of even the flower may restore
But the loves of that bower shall be never repeated
& the flower by that hand will be gatherd no more
Oer the fair face of summer 3 winters 'bin sweeping
& three springs have wakened sin he bid adieu
& far yond the ocean full soundly he's sleeping
Frail life owns no shoots for to blossom anew
& suns may oft gleam were he slumbers forsaken
& daiseys may smile on the turf were he's lain
Nor sunbeams nor summers can warm him to waken
The smile of my Jemmy neer blossoms again
& three springs have wakened sin he bid adieu
& far yond the ocean full soundly he's sleeping
Frail life owns no shoots for to blossom anew
& suns may oft gleam were he slumbers forsaken
& daiseys may smile on the turf were he's lain
Nor sunbeams nor summers can warm him to waken
The smile of my Jemmy neer blossoms again
| The early poems of John Clare | |