 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
A MAID'S TRAGEDY
‘Oh, ope thy door—loud howls the wind
On my naked misery;
Though thou to me hast proved unkind,
I meant no harm to thee.
I'm loath to break thy peaceful rest,
But chilly falls the rain;
The storm cuts deep my barèd breast
But not like thy disdain.
On my naked misery;
Though thou to me hast proved unkind,
I meant no harm to thee.
I'm loath to break thy peaceful rest,
But chilly falls the rain;
The storm cuts deep my barèd breast
But not like thy disdain.
‘Love's tender pledge within my arms
Is numbed and breathes no more;
Oh, if thy heart with pity warms
Awake and ope thy door.
I have no clothes to shelter me;
A father's scorn I fly;
Worse pelts the storm; love, pity me,
Or at thy door I die.’
Is numbed and breathes no more;
Oh, if thy heart with pity warms
Awake and ope thy door.
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A father's scorn I fly;
Worse pelts the storm; love, pity me,
Or at thy door I die.’
Thus wailing o'er her woes, a maid
To her [false lover] came,
Who won her heart, her love betrayed,
And left her to her shame.
The shelter of her house denied,
Her father's scorn she bore;
Here to her false love's house she hied,
‘Oh, William, ope thy door!
To her [false lover] came,
Who won her heart, her love betrayed,
And left her to her shame.
The shelter of her house denied,
Her father's scorn she bore;
Here to her false love's house she hied,
‘Oh, William, ope thy door!
‘The storm I longer cannot stand;
My covering is but thin;
My babe falls from my numbing hand,
Oh, wake and let me in.
That once red cheek is cold to touch
That warmed with thy embrace
When kissed and praised by thee so much
And owned a lovely face.
My covering is but thin;
My babe falls from my numbing hand,
Oh, wake and let me in.
That once red cheek is cold to touch
That warmed with thy embrace
When kissed and praised by thee so much
And owned a lovely face.
‘But cropt by thee, the bloom is gone;
Love's pledge in death doth sleep;
Oh, bitter cold the storm keeps on;
I would—but cannot—weep.
Ah, wilt thou not, my false love, wake?’
In vain the maiden cried:
Benumbed with cold, her heart did break;
She sat her down, and died.
Love's pledge in death doth sleep;
Oh, bitter cold the storm keeps on;
I would—but cannot—weep.
Ah, wilt thou not, my false love, wake?’
In vain the maiden cried:
Benumbed with cold, her heart did break;
She sat her down, and died.
| The Poems of John Clare | |