John Clare

John Clare

1,000 карма
United Kingdom (Great Britain)

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Christmas is come and every
Makes room to give him welcome nowE'en want will dry its tears in
And crown him wi' a holly
Tho tramping 'neath a winters skyO'er snow track paths and rhymey
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Farewell to the bushy clump close to the
And the flags where the butter-bump hides in forever;
Farewell to the weedy nook, hemmed in by waters;
Farewell to the miller's brook and his three bonny daughters;
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When first we hear the shy-come nightingales,
They seem to mutter o’er their songs in fear,
And, climb we e’er so soft the spinney rails,
All stops as if no bird was anywhere
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In the cowslip pips I lie,
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies,
Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes,
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I am
yet what I am none cares or knows, My friends forsake me like a memory lost; I am the self-consumer of my woes, They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost; And yet I am
and live with shadow...
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I ne'er was struck before that hour With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower And stole my heart away complete
My face turned pale as deadly pale
My legs refused to walk away,
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When once the sun sinks in the west,
And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast;
Almost as pale as moonbeams are,
Or its companionable star,
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