The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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TO A COLD BEAUTY, INSENSIBLE OF LOVE |
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 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
517
TO A COLD BEAUTY, INSENSIBLE OF LOVE
Eliza, farewel! ah, most lovely Eliza,
So much as thy beauties excel;
So much as I love thee, so much as I prize thee,
Unfeeling Eliza, farewel!
The heart without feeling, the beauty's but small,
Though tempting it be to the view;
The warmth of a soul crowns the beauty of all,
Without it thou'rt nothing—adieu!
So much as thy beauties excel;
So much as I love thee, so much as I prize thee,
Unfeeling Eliza, farewel!
The heart without feeling, the beauty's but small,
Though tempting it be to the view;
The warmth of a soul crowns the beauty of all,
Without it thou'rt nothing—adieu!
Thou Image of Beauty, endeavour is vain,
To warm thee to life and to love,
Could I but the skill of the artist attain,
And steal thee a soul from above;
Though as fair as the statue he finish'd art thou,
'Twere folly his plan to pursue;
I would give thee feeling, but cannot tell how;
I would love thee, dear—but, adieu!
To warm thee to life and to love,
Could I but the skill of the artist attain,
And steal thee a soul from above;
Though as fair as the statue he finish'd art thou,
'Twere folly his plan to pursue;
I would give thee feeling, but cannot tell how;
I would love thee, dear—but, adieu!
To all that life sweetens eternally lost,
Where love makes a heaven below,
Thy bosom's congealed in apathy's frost,
As white and as cold as the snow:
Since no spark of soul its dead tenant can warm,
Thou Icicle hung on Spring's brow,
I'll turn my sighs from thee to mix with the storm;
The storm's full as tender as thou.
Where love makes a heaven below,
Thy bosom's congealed in apathy's frost,
As white and as cold as the snow:
Since no spark of soul its dead tenant can warm,
Thou Icicle hung on Spring's brow,
I'll turn my sighs from thee to mix with the storm;
The storm's full as tender as thou.
That heart where no feelings or raptures can dwell,
Be its owner in person most fair,
Were beauty a bargain to buy or to sell,
I never would purchase it there:
So cold to the joys that in sympathy burn,
Joys none but true love ever knew,
How lost should I be could I prove no return:
I wish to be happy—adieu!
Be its owner in person most fair,
Were beauty a bargain to buy or to sell,
I never would purchase it there:
518
Joys none but true love ever knew,
How lost should I be could I prove no return:
I wish to be happy—adieu!
| The early poems of John Clare | |