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John Clare (Джон Клэр)


Summer


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. 



John Clare's other poems:
  1. To John Milton
  2. To John Clare
  3. Turkeys
  4. Farm Breakfast
  5. Peggy


Poems of other poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием):

  • Alexander Pope (Александр Поуп) Summer ("See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!")
  • Samuel Johnson (Сэмюэл Джонсон) Summer ("O Phoebus! down the western sky")
  • William Morris (Уильям Моррис) Summer ("Summer looked for long am I")
  • James Thomson (Джеймс Томсон) Summer ("Now swarms the village o'er the jovial mead")
  • Robert Anderson (Роберт Андерсон) Summer ("Now the gay smiles of Summer enliven each scene")

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