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 THERE IS A VALLEY |
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
OH THERE IS A VALLEY
O there is a valley where I met pretty Sally
Sure never seemed woman or valley so fair
How sweet womans clouths is her cheeks like red roses
Blushed warmly and sweet through her bonny dark hair
Round woodbines winds Sally and the cheeks o' young Sally
Wove a colour more sweet than the bloom o' the brere
Her hair it was dark brown her eye fetched the lark down
While mounted in heaven a singing most clear
Sure never seemed woman or valley so fair
How sweet womans clouths is her cheeks like red roses
Blushed warmly and sweet through her bonny dark hair
Round woodbines winds Sally and the cheeks o' young Sally
Wove a colour more sweet than the bloom o' the brere
Her hair it was dark brown her eye fetched the lark down
While mounted in heaven a singing most clear
King cups wi' pearls all inside by the morning
Were studded all over the green grassy leas
Oaks glossy green brightness sheeted daisy beds whit[e]ness
And sweeter that morning the song of the bees
When I clasped my arms round her and doatingly found her
The sweetest o' maidens I'd e'er before seen
Where the gay and bright butterfly's with their wings full o eyes
Seemed like flowing flowers sprung from the grass green
Were studded all over the green grassy leas
Oaks glossy green brightness sheeted daisy beds whit[e]ness
And sweeter that morning the song of the bees
816
The sweetest o' maidens I'd e'er before seen
Where the gay and bright butterfly's with their wings full o eyes
Seemed like flowing flowers sprung from the grass green
O this is the valley where I met pretty Sally
Among the hedge roses and trailing woodbine
Where the yellow sweet briar like a green bush on fire
On our dazzeled fancies did shine
Where the blue bells in dew drooping all the wood through
Among the hedge roses and trailing woodbine
Where the yellow sweet briar like a green bush on fire
On our dazzeled fancies did shine
Where the blue bells in dew drooping all the wood through
| The later poems of John Clare | |