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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THE SILVER MOON THAT LIGHTS THE WAY |
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
THE SILVER MOON THAT LIGHTS THE WAY
The sun takes delight to shine on her gown
And the wind ever sought to be fanning her face
It blew the old hovel in the home close quite down
Because she was milking her cows in the place
The dog rose was proud of her thorns and her flowers
The bonniest bush within the green space
But the roses turned pale in the bowers
When she shewed them her own pretty face
And the wind ever sought to be fanning her face
It blew the old hovel in the home close quite down
Because she was milking her cows in the place
The dog rose was proud of her thorns and her flowers
The bonniest bush within the green space
But the roses turned pale in the bowers
When she shewed them her own pretty face
The silver moon that lights the way
Is now disclosing its bright face
Lights up the stars with her holy ray
And peeps into every green place
The stars are twinkling in the blue
And proudly they delight
To see the maiden brush the dew
As she walks in their silent light
Is now disclosing its bright face
Lights up the stars with her holy ray
And peeps into every green place
The stars are twinkling in the blue
And proudly they delight
To see the maiden brush the dew
As she walks in their silent light
1073
In silver beads the grasses lie
They gently brush her feet
The daisy would have oped its eye
If it chanced her smile to meet
The pilewort would have shewn her gold
Had her eyes upon it shone
But he keepeth in bed so cold
And his beauty is all its own
They gently brush her feet
The daisy would have oped its eye
If it chanced her smile to meet
The pilewort would have shewn her gold
Had her eyes upon it shone
But he keepeth in bed so cold
And his beauty is all its own
Her hair it is black as the ink
Her eyes they are bright as the sky
Her lips are as red as the pink
Her neck does the Lily Outvie
The Oak apple hangs on the bough
She's as soft as the summer hours
Oh could I but meet with her now
Where the moonbeams are playing wi flowers
Her eyes they are bright as the sky
Her lips are as red as the pink
Her neck does the Lily Outvie
The Oak apple hangs on the bough
She's as soft as the summer hours
Oh could I but meet with her now
Where the moonbeams are playing wi flowers
| The later poems of John Clare | |