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 moons shines in my face;

A burden still of chilling fear

I find in every place.

The breeze is whispering in the bush,

And the dews fall from the tree,

All sighing on, and will not hush,

Some pleasant tales of thee.