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Poem by John Clare


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

Poem Theme: Summer

John Clare's other poems:
  1. Language Has Not the Power to Speak What Love Indites
  2. Nobody Cometh to Woo
  3. Merry Maid
  4. Wood Rides
  5. Hodge


Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • Alexander Pope Summer ("See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!")
  • Samuel Johnson Summer ("O Phoebus! down the western sky")
  • William Morris Summer ("Summer looked for long am I")
  • James Thomson Summer ("Now swarms the village o'er the jovial mead")
  • Robert Anderson Summer ("Now the gay smiles of Summer enliven each scene")
  • Madison Cawein Summer ("Now Lucifer ignites her taper bright")
  • Amy Lowell Summer ("Some men there are who find in nature all")
  • John Lapraik Summer ("THOU joyful, pleasant Season, hail!")

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