To Mary

To Mary

by John Clare

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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.