Poems Chiefly from Manuscript by John Clare
page 63 of 275 (22%)
page 63 of 275 (22%)
![]() | ![]() |
|
And out her head put she:
And who is that which knocks so late And taunts so loud to me? It is the Maid of Ocram, Your own heart's next akin; For so you've sworn, Lord Gregory, To come and let me in. O pause not thus, you know me well, Haste down my way to win. The wind disturbs my yellow locks, The snow sleeps on my skin.-- If you be the Maid of Ocram, As much I doubt you be, Then tell me of three tokens That passed with you and me.-- O talk not now of tokens Which you do wish to break; Chilled are those lips you've kissed so warm, And all too numbed to speak. You know when in my father's bower You left your cloak for mine, Though yours was nought but silver twist And mine the golden twine.-- If you're the lass of Ocram, As I take you not to be, The second token you must tell Which past with you and me.-- |
|