Summer -john Clare

Summer - John Clare 

                          Summer - John Clare 


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.


~      Summer - John Clare