TO MARY: I SLEEP WITH THEE

John Clare 1793-1864

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, 

And the leaves fall from the tree, 

All sighing on, and will not hush, 

Some pleasant tales of thee. 

-o0o-