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Poem by John Clare
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.
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