John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion Edited by R. K. R. Thornton & Anne Tibble |
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THE HOMELESS EMIGRANTS SONG |
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 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
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THE HOMELESS EMIGRANTS SONG
O false love is a bitter thing
& song alone may break the spell
But silence numbs at my harp string
My woes nor song nor words may tell
Tears they will flow for many wrongs
While mine with hopeless winter freeze
& sighs & tears fill many songs
But mine must mourn for more than these
& song alone may break the spell
But silence numbs at my harp string
My woes nor song nor words may tell
Tears they will flow for many wrongs
While mine with hopeless winter freeze
& sighs & tears fill many songs
But mine must mourn for more than these
Of friends I neer must see again
That now perchance the grass grows oer
Of joys whose memorys worse then pain
To think of & to see no more
Of loves for which mine own must ach
The more to think it aches in vain
Yet more then this it takes to break
My heart for which no words remain
That now perchance the grass grows oer
Of joys whose memorys worse then pain
To think of & to see no more
Of loves for which mine own must ach
The more to think it aches in vain
Yet more then this it takes to break
My heart for which no words remain
Tis worse then sickness worse then fears
Then palid looks & hollow eyes
Tis made of thoughts no bosom hears
That wring the sick heart till it dies
Some sigh of wounds from Cupids bow
From deeper wounds my troubles spring
Alas a heart half broken now
Hath left but little power to sing
Then palid looks & hollow eyes
Tis made of thoughts no bosom hears
That wring the sick heart till it dies
Some sigh of wounds from Cupids bow
From deeper wounds my troubles spring
Alas a heart half broken now
Hath left but little power to sing
Tis not of love I would disclose
My troubles flow from deeper streams
Tis my poor country sunk in woes
All else were vain & idle themes
No muse leads me through fancys tales
Like one to whom her powers belong
A homeless lot my heart bewails
& truths the sorrow of the song
My troubles flow from deeper streams
Tis my poor country sunk in woes
All else were vain & idle themes
No muse leads me through fancys tales
Like one to whom her powers belong
A homeless lot my heart bewails
& truths the sorrow of the song
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |