28 August 2007 | Vol. 7, No. 2
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.
About the author:
1793-1864. John Clare's first book, Poems Descriptive of Rural Life, appeared to great critical acclaim in 1820. His following three books, however, were met with diminishing enthusiasm. In 1837, he was confined to Northampton General Lunatic Asylum, where he was free to wander the countryside and compose poetry until his death twenty-seven years later. Learn more about John Clare at Wikipedia.
For further reading:
See the complete list of work by John Clare at 42opus. Browse the contents of 42opus Vol. 7, No. 2, where "Summer" ran on August 28, 2007. List other work with these same labels: poetry, classic, rhyme.