Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.
The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest
In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover's breast;
I'll lean upon her breast and I'll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o'sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.
..........so beautiful and so poetic.....this is truly a classic poem...
Brilliant! I find in Clare the pure spring of genius. An education might have ruined this crystal view. These are the words of an angel who has lived all his life in heaven. Yet Clare had the humblest beginnings.
A dream like mid summer time poem telling about the lover having relief at last on the bosom of his lady love is simple and easy to read. It is quite enjoyable too to be transported to that situation!
Words have that feeling of life, promise, hope of tomorrow and family, for the summer season of a persons life.
In some cases, you have to use a kitchen knife. But if you cut fruit with a kitchen knife //xn--o80b910a26eepc81il5g.vom77.com 카지노사이트
Ho-hum; this poem suffers from convention. Little wonder he went mad.
Ho-Hum. This poet is overwhelmed by convention. Little wonder he went mad.