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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I PULL'D A WILD ROSE FRA THE BRERE |
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
I PULL'D A WILD ROSE FRA THE BRERE
I pulled a wild rose frae the Brere
A May bunch frae the white thorn tree
And thought how sweet the blooming year
And fondly Mary thought o' thee
I thought upon thy pouting lip
The brightness o thy beaming eye
As red as was the autumn hip
As bright as is the may day sky
I pulled a hedge rose frae the tree
And fondly Mary thought o' thee
A May bunch frae the white thorn tree
And thought how sweet the blooming year
And fondly Mary thought o' thee
I thought upon thy pouting lip
The brightness o thy beaming eye
As red as was the autumn hip
As bright as is the may day sky
I pulled a hedge rose frae the tree
And fondly Mary thought o' thee
I thought o' summer days as fine
I thought o' summer eves as fair
When no two eyes save thine and mine
Saw those gold islands gleaming there
I think I see the Wild white rose
So loved that pleasant eve by thee
The sunny West as firey glows
Does absent Mary think o' me
The wild hedge rose is on the brere
When I loved absent Mary dear
I thought o' summer eves as fair
When no two eyes save thine and mine
Saw those gold islands gleaming there
I think I see the Wild white rose
So loved that pleasant eve by thee
The sunny West as firey glows
Does absent Mary think o' me
The wild hedge rose is on the brere
When I loved absent Mary dear
Here where I pledged my heart to thine
Here in rapture kissed thy cheek
Here cowslip blooms as usual shine
With just the self same ruddy streak
Sweet Mary every thing is here
The seasons gone could please thee well
The white thorn May the blooming brere
And here the light o' e'ening dwells
Where we stood in the world alone
And I made Mary's heart my own
Here in rapture kissed thy cheek
Here cowslip blooms as usual shine
With just the self same ruddy streak
855
The seasons gone could please thee well
The white thorn May the blooming brere
And here the light o' e'ening dwells
Where we stood in the world alone
And I made Mary's heart my own
| The later poems of John Clare | |