Love's Emblem

Go rose, my Chloe's bosom grace:
How happy should I prove,
Could I supply that envied place
With never-fading love.

Accept, dear maid, now Summer glows,
This pure, unsullied gem,
Love's emblem in a full-blown rose,
Just broken from the stem.

Accept it as a favourite flower
For thy soft breast to wear;
'Twill blossom there its transient hour,
A favourite of the fair.

Upon thy cheek its blossom glows,
As from a mirror clear,
Making thyself a living rose,
In blossom all the year.

It is a sweet and favourite flower
To grace a maiden's brow,
Emblem of love without its power--
A sweeter rose art thou.

The rose, like hues of insect wing,
May perish in an hour;
'T is but at best a fading thing,
But thou'rt a living flower.

The roses steeped in morning dews
Would every eye enthrall,
But woman, she alone subdues;
Her beauty conquers all.

John Clare

John Clare was an English poet known for his celebrations of the English countryside and lamentation of its disruption. Born in Helpston, Northamptonshire, Clare was initially a farm laborer. His poetry is characterized by its natural imagery and rustic language. Despite periods of fame during his period, Clare spent the later part of his life in an asylum due to mental health issues. His works gained greater recognition posthumously. Clare's major poem collections include "Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery" and "The Shepherd's Calendar."

John Clare

Graves Of Infants

John Clare, Simple Poetry

The Soldier

John Clare, Simple Poetry

Remembrances

John Clare, Simple Poetry

Farewell And Defiance To Love

John Clare, Simple Poetry

English

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To A Rosebud In Humble Life

    Sweet, uncultivated blossom,
    Reared in Spring's refreshing dews,
    Dear to every gazer's bosom,
    Fair to every eye that views;--
    Opening bud, whose youth can charm us,
    Thine be many a happy hour:
    Spreading rose, whose beauties warm us--
    Flourish long, my lovely flower.

    Though pride look disdainful on thee,
    Scorning scenes so mean as thine,
    Although fortune frown upon thee,
    Lovely blossom, ne'er repine:
    Health unbought is ever with thee,
    Which their wealth can never gain;
    Innocence doth garments give thee,
    Such as fashion apes in vain.

    When fit time and reason grant thee
    Leave to quit the parent tree,
    May some happy hand transplant thee
    To a station suiting t...

John Clare

The Wanton Chloe--A Pastoral

    Young Chloe looks sweet as the rose,
    And her love might be reckoned no less,
    But her bosom so freely bestows
    That all may a portion possess.
    Her smiles would be cheering to see,
    But so freely they're lavished abroad
    That each silly swain, like to me,
    Can boast what the wanton bestowed.

    Her looks and her kisses so free
    Are for all, like the rain and the sky;
    As the blossom love is to the bee,
    Each swain is as welcome as I.
    And though I my folly can see,
    Yet still must I love and adore,
    Though I know the love whispered to me
    Has been told to so many before.

    'T is sad that a bosom so fair,
    And soft lips so seemingly sweet,
    Should study false ways, to ensnare,
  ...

John Clare

Rose And Poet.

        I scorn the man who builds his fame
        On ruins of another's name:
        As prudes, who prudishly declare
        They by a sister scandaled are;
        As scribblers, covetous of praise,
        By slandering, snatch themselves the bays;
        Beauties and bards, alike, are prone
        To snatch at honours not their own.
        As Lesbia listens, all the whister,
        To hear some scandal of a sister.
        How can soft souls, which sigh for sueings,
        Rejoice at one another's ruins?

        As, in the merry month of May,
        A bard enjoyed the break of day,
        And quaffed the fragrant scents ascending,
        He plucked a blossomed rose, transcending
        All blossoms else; it moved his tongue
        T...

John Gay

The Maiden I Love

How sweet are Spring wild flowers! They grow past the counting.
How sweet are the wood-paths that thread through the grove!
But sweeter than all the wild flowers of the mountain
Is the beauty that walks here--the maiden I love.
Her black hair in tangles
The rose briar mangles;
Her lips and soft cheeks,
Where love ever speaks:
O there's nothing so sweet as the maiden I love.

It was down in the wild flowers, among brakes and brambles,
I met the sweet maiden so dear to my eye,
In one of my Sunday morn midsummer rambles,
Among the sweet wild blossoms blooming close by.
Her hair it was coal black,
Hung loose down her back;
In her hand she held posies
Of blooming primroses,
The maiden who passed on the morning of love.

Coal black was her silk h...

John Clare

In my Garden of Roses.

Oh! Come to me, darling! My Sweet!
Here where the sunlight reposes;
Pink petals lie thick at my feet,
Here in my garden of rose's.

Oh! come to my bower! My Queen!
Sweet with the breath of the flow'rs;
Shaded with curtains of green; -
Here let us dream through the hours.

The sky is unfleck'd overhead, -
Trees languish in Sol's fervid ray, -
The earth to the heavens is wed,
And robin is piping his lay.

Lost is their sweetness upon me;
Vainly their beauties displaying; -
Cheerless I wander, and lonely, -
Hoping and longing and praying.

Oh! come to me, Queenliest flower!
Reign in my garden of roses;
Humbly we bow to thy power,
Loving the sway thou imposes.

Hark! 'Tis her tinkling footfall!
Robin desist from th...

John Hartley

Ode 8

Singe wee the Rose
Then which no flower there growes
    Is sweeter:
And aptly her compare
With what in that is rare
    A parallel none meeter.

Or made poses,
Of this that incloses
    Suche blisses,
That naturally flusheth
As she blusheth
    When she is robd of kisses.

Or if strew'd
When with the morning dew'd
    Or stilling,
Or howe to sense expos'd
All which in her inclos'd,
    Ech place with sweetnes filling.

That most renown'd
By Nature richly crownd
    With yellow,
Of that delitious layre
And as pure, her hayre
    Vnto the same the fellowe,

Fearing of harme
Nature that flower doth arme
    From danger,
The touch giues her offence
But with reuerence
    Vnto her...

Michael Drayton