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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MY BETSEY DEAR |
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
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MY BETSEY DEAR
My Betsey dear my early love
Where shall I meet with thee
By dark oak grove or willow grove
Or by the Hawthorn tree
My Ardent love to thee I'd prove
Sacred it deeply burns within
I swear by truth and light above
None else my love shall win
Can you be false to me
Dear maid
Can you be false to me
Where shall I meet with thee
By dark oak grove or willow grove
Or by the Hawthorn tree
My Ardent love to thee I'd prove
Sacred it deeply burns within
I swear by truth and light above
None else my love shall win
Can you be false to me
Dear maid
Can you be false to me
Your cottage hid in willow trees
I see the chimney smoke
Nature brings all its charms to please
And nothing to provoke
I think I see your long dark hair
As stooping o'er your flowers
An houri you to me are there
At morn & evetide hours
Then do you think of me
Dear maid
Say do you think of me?
I see the chimney smoke
Nature brings all its charms to please
And nothing to provoke
I think I see your long dark hair
As stooping o'er your flowers
An houri you to me are there
At morn & evetide hours
Then do you think of me
Dear maid
Say do you think of me?
Love is not false it cannot be
Let lies say what they will
Twas Heaven to me to think of thee
I'm thinking of thee still
To see thy first averted looks
It made me strange awhile
While passing by meandering brooks
With heaven in thy smile
That smiling face of thine
Dear maid
That smiling face of thine
Let lies say what they will
Twas Heaven to me to think of thee
I'm thinking of thee still
To see thy first averted looks
It made me strange awhile
While passing by meandering brooks
1004
That smiling face of thine
Dear maid
That smiling face of thine
My boyish fancy lov'd to hear
The music from thy tongue
Like to a fountain gushing clear
They broke forth in a song
I look'd down on the sparkling brook
Up at the skies above
And what I said to thy sweet look
Was nothing but true love
Yes love of purest mould
Dear maid
Love of the purest mould
The music from thy tongue
Like to a fountain gushing clear
They broke forth in a song
I look'd down on the sparkling brook
Up at the skies above
And what I said to thy sweet look
Was nothing but true love
Yes love of purest mould
Dear maid
Love of the purest mould
| The later poems of John Clare | |