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Poem by John Clare


To Mary


I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,
And yet thou art not there;
I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,
And press the common air.
Thy eyes are gazing upon mine,
When thou art out of sight;
My lips are always touching thine,
At morning, noon, and night.

I think and speak of other things
To keep my mind at rest:
But still to thee my memory clings
Like love in woman's breast.
I hide it from the world's wide eye,
And think and speak contrary;
But soft the wind comes from the sky,
And whispers tales of Mary.

The night wind whispers in my ear,
The moons shines in my face;
A burden still of chilling fear
I find in every place.
The breeze is whispering in the bush,
And the dews fall from the tree,
All sighing on, and will not hush,
Some pleasant tales of thee. 



John Clare


John Clare's other poems:
  1. Nobody Cometh to Woo
  2. The Gipsy's Camp
  3. Hodge
  4. The Soldier
  5. Bantry Bay


Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • William Wordsworth To Mary ("Let other bards of angels sing")
  • Percy Shelley To Mary ("How, my dear Mary, -- are you critic-bitten")
  • William Cowper To Mary ("The twentieth year is well nigh past")
  • Robert Anderson To Mary ("Exil'd frae thee, and ilka mead")
  • William Thackeray To Mary ("I seem, in the midst of the crowd")
  • Charles Wolfe To Mary ("If I had thought thou couldst have died")

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