 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
BETRAYED
Dream not of love, to think it like
What waking love may prove to be,
For I dreamed so and broke my heart,
When my false lover slighted me.
What waking love may prove to be,
For I dreamed so and broke my heart,
When my false lover slighted me.
Love, like to flowers, is sweet when green;
The rose in bud aye best appears;
And she that loves a handsome man
Should have more wit than she has years.
The rose in bud aye best appears;
And she that loves a handsome man
Should have more wit than she has years.
I set my back against an oak,
Thinking it to be some lusty tree;
But first it bowed and then it broke,
And so did my false love with me.
Thinking it to be some lusty tree;
But first it bowed and then it broke,
And so did my false love with me.
163
I put my finger in a bush,
Thinking the sweetest rose to find;
I pricked my finger to the bone,
And left the sweetest rose behind.
Thinking the sweetest rose to find;
I pricked my finger to the bone,
And left the sweetest rose behind.
I threw a stone into the sea,
And deep it sunk into the sand,
And so did my poor heart in me
When my false lover left the land.
And deep it sunk into the sand,
And so did my poor heart in me
When my false lover left the land.
I watched the sun an hour too soon
Set into clouds behind the town;
So my false lover left, and said
‘Good night’ before the day was down.
Set into clouds behind the town;
So my false lover left, and said
‘Good night’ before the day was down.
I cropt a lily from the stalk,
And in my hand it died away;
So did my joy, so will my heart,
In false love's cruel grasp decay.
And in my hand it died away;
So did my joy, so will my heart,
In false love's cruel grasp decay.
| The Poems of John Clare | |