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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GO NOT NIGH HER DWELLING |
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
GO NOT NIGH HER DWELLING
Go not nigh her dwelling
You're caught if you do
Her eye it flashes lig[h]tning
That pierces one quite through
She comes with her pretences
Like a dew drop is her tread
You'll surely lose your senses
If you dare to turn your head
You're caught if you do
Her eye it flashes lig[h]tning
That pierces one quite through
She comes with her pretences
Like a dew drop is her tread
You'll surely lose your senses
If you dare to turn your head
All scentless are the roses
As in hedges they do glow
She comes and she proposes
That you will with her go
The wild flowers will stoop
When they hear the bee sing
But if on her you look
You're a desolate thing
As in hedges they do glow
She comes and she proposes
That you will with her go
1074
When they hear the bee sing
But if on her you look
You're a desolate thing
Twenty years have I woo'ed her
She is not yet won
Like a slave I ha' loo'ed her
Thus far I'm undone
Love wishes were brief no's
When I urged her to stay
But she plucked a rose
And went singing away
She is not yet won
Like a slave I ha' loo'ed her
Thus far I'm undone
Love wishes were brief no's
When I urged her to stay
But she plucked a rose
And went singing away
She comes like the morning
In purple and grey
But me she is scorning
As I pass on my way
I see her pass by me
Her eyes beaming bright
Why does she deny me
And say ‘quit my sight’!
In purple and grey
But me she is scorning
As I pass on my way
I see her pass by me
Her eyes beaming bright
Why does she deny me
And say ‘quit my sight’!
Her heart's without love
She has beauty alone
No fond one can move
That cold heart o' stone
My heart wi love bled
As I pass'd her to day
She turn'd not her head
My love melted away
She has beauty alone
No fond one can move
That cold heart o' stone
My heart wi love bled
As I pass'd her to day
She turn'd not her head
My love melted away
| The later poems of John Clare | |