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To Mary
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 moon shines on my face; 
 The burden still of chilling fear 
 I find in every place. 

 The breeze is whispering in the bush, 
 The leaves fall from the tree; 
 All sighing on and will not hush, 
 Some pleasant tales of thee.
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Poem ID: 70375   Poem Posted: 4/17/2002
Viewed: 123656  Voted On: 1383  E-mailed: 472  Commented On: 2
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