To A City Girl.

Sweet Mary, though nor sighs nor pains
Impassion'd courtship prove,
My simple song the truth ne'er feigns
To win thee to my love:
I ask thee from thy bustling life,
Where nought can pleasing prove,
From city noise, and care, and strife
O come, and be my love!

If harmless mirth delight thine eyes,
Then make my cot thy home;
The country-life abounds with joys,
And whispers thee to come;
Here fiddles urge thy nimble feet
Adown the dance to move,
Here pleasures in continuance meet--
O come, and be my love!

If music's charm, that all delights,
Has witcheries for thee,
The country then my love invites,
In echoed melody;
Here thrushes chant their madrigals,
Here breathes the ringed dove
Soft as day's closing murmur falls--
O come, and be my love!

If nature's prospects, wood, and vale,
Thy visits can entice,
The country's scenes thy coming hail,
To meet a paradise;
Here pride can raise no barring wall
To hide the flower and grove,
Here fields are gardens, free for all--
O come, and be my love!

If music, mirth, and all combine
To make my cot thy home,
To tempt thee, Mary, to be mine,
Then why delay to come?
Here night-birds sing my love to sleep,
Here sweet thy dreams shall prove,
Here in my arms shall Mary creep--
O come, and be my love!

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

The Flood

John Clare, Simple Poetry

To The Honourable Admiral Lord Radstock.

John Clare, Simple Poetry

Winter.

John Clare, Simple Poetry

Wlld Nosegay.

John Clare, Simple Poetry

English

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The Lover's Invitation

Now the wheat is in the ear, and the rose is on the brere,
And bluecaps so divinely blue, with poppies of bright scarlet hue,
Maiden, at the close o' eve, wilt thou, dear, thy cottage leave,
And walk with one that loves thee?

When the even's tiny tears bead upon the grassy spears,
And the spider's lace is wet with its pinhead blebs of dew,
Wilt thou lay thy work aside and walk by brooklets dim descried,
Where I delight to love thee?

While thy footfall lightly press'd tramples by the skylark's nest,
And the cockle's streaky eyes mark the snug place where it lies,
Mary, put thy work away, and walk at dewy close o' day
With me to kiss and love thee.

There's something in the time so sweet, when lovers in the evening meet,
The air so still, the sky so mild, like...

John Clare

Mary Dove

Sweet Summer, breathe your softest gales
To charm my lover's ear:
Ye zephyrs, tell your choicest tales
Where'er she shall appear;
And gently wave the meadow grass
Where soft she sets her feet,
For my love is a country lass,
And bonny as she's sweet.

The hedges only seem to mourn,
The willow boughs to sigh,
Though sunshine o'er the meads sojourn,
To cheer me where I lie:
The blackbird in the hedgerow thorn
Sings loud his Summer lay;
He seems to sing, both eve and morn,
"She wanders here to-day."

The skylark in the summer cloud
One cheering anthem sings,
And Mary often wanders out
To watch his trembling wings.

* * * * *

I'll wander down the river way,
And wild flower posies make,
For Nature whispers all ...

John Clare

To The Rural Muse.

Simple enchantress! wreath'd in summer blooms
Of slender bent-stalks topt with feathery down,
Heath's creeping vetch, and glaring yellow brooms,
With ash-keys wavering on thy rushy crown;
Simple enchantress! how I've woo'd thy smiles,
How often sought thee far from flush'd renown;
Sought thee unseen where fountain-waters fell;
Touch'd thy wild reed unheard, in weary toils;
And though my heavy hand thy song defiles,
'Tis hard to leave thee, and to bid farewel.

Simple enchantress! ah, from all renown,
Far off, my soul hath warm'd in bliss to see
The varied figures on thy summer-gown,
That nature's finger works so 'witchingly;
The colour'd flower, the silken leaves that crown
Green nestling bower-bush and high towering tree;
Brooks of the sunny green and sh...

John Clare

Ballad. "When Nature's Beauty Shone Complete."

When nature's beauty shone complete.
With summer's lovely weather,
And even, shadowing day's retreat,
Brought swains and maids together;
Then I did meet a charming face,
But who--I'll be discreet:
Though lords themselves without disgrace
Might love whom I did meet.

"Good evening, lovely lass," said I,
To make her silence break;
The instant evening's blushing sky
Was rival'd in her cheek;
Her eyes were turn'd upon the ground,
She made me no reply,
But downward looks my bosom found:
"You've won me," whisper'd I.

And I did try all love could do,
And she try'd all to fly,
Now lingering slow to let me go,
Then hurrying to pass by:
"My love," said I, "you've me mistook,
No harm from me you'll meet;"
She only answer'd with a ...

John Clare

Ballad. When The Dark Ivy The Thorn-Tree Is Mounting

When the dark ivy the thorn-tree is mounting,
Sweet shielding in summer the nest of the dove,
There lies the sweet spot, by the side of the fountain,
That's dear to all sweetness that dwells upon love:
For there setting sunbeams, ere even's clouds close 'em,
Once stretch'd a long shadow of one I adore;
And there did I meet the sweet sighs of the bosom
Of one ever dear, though I meet her no more.

And who with a soul, and a share of warm feeling,
And who with a heart that owns love for the fair,
Can pass by the spot where his first look was stealing,
Or first fondness ventur'd love-tales to declare?
Ah, who can pass by it, and notice it never?
Can long days forget on first fondness to call?
Sure time kindles love to burn brighter than ever,
And nature's first c...

John Clare

Song. "Dropt Here And There Upon The Flower"

Dropt here and there upon the flower
I love the dew to see,
For then returns the even's hour
That is so dear to me,
When silence reigns upon the plain,
And night hides all, or nearly;
For then I meet the smiles again
Of her I love so dearly.

O how I love yon dusky plains,
Though others there may be
As much belov'd by other swains,
But none so dear to me:
Their thorn-buds smell as sweet the while,
Their brooks may run as clearly;
But what are they without the smile
Of her I love so dearly.

In yonder bower the maid I've met,
Whom still I love to meet;
The dew-drops fall, the sun has set,
O evening thou art sweet!
Hope's eye fain breaks the misty glooms,
The time's expir'd, or nearly--
Ah, faithful still, and here she com...

John Clare