 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
THE HEART THAT'S SMIT
The heart that's smit with the white and red
That rosy cheeks do entertain,
And on a bosom's lily bed
Longs for to lie and be well again,
The wounded that doth pains endure
From star-like eyes and snowy skin
Is stung by toys that admit no cure
If there's no heart within.
That rosy cheeks do entertain,
And on a bosom's lily bed
Longs for to lie and be well again,
The wounded that doth pains endure
From star-like eyes and snowy skin
Is stung by toys that admit no cure
If there's no heart within.
In vain they love, in vain may glow
At beauty that is all display,
Love without roots can never grow
But like cropt flowers decay.
The scentless flower that in show exceeds
But pleases for an hour,
Then's tost aside like children's weeds—
And such is beauty's power.
At beauty that is all display,
Love without roots can never grow
But like cropt flowers decay.
The scentless flower that in show exceeds
But pleases for an hour,
Then's tost aside like children's weeds—
And such is beauty's power.
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The heart's the soil where love doth grow,
Its virtue doth all charms excel,
Their union is true bliss below,
Love must be where they dwell.
The finest jewels so rich and rare
Are always cased in a meaner skin,
Nor would the casket be locked with care
But for the gem within.
Its virtue doth all charms excel,
Their union is true bliss below,
Love must be where they dwell.
The finest jewels so rich and rare
Are always cased in a meaner skin,
Nor would the casket be locked with care
But for the gem within.
| The Poems of John Clare | |