Ballad. "I love thee, sweet Mary, but love thee in fear"
By John Clare
I love thee, sweet Mary, but love thee in fear; Were I but the morning breeze, healthy and airy, As thou goest a walking I'd breathe in thine ear, And whisper and sigh how I love thee, my Mary! I wish but to touch thee, but wish it in vain; Wert thou but a streamlet a winding so clearly, And I little globules of soft dropping rain, How fond would I press thy white bosom, my Mary! I would steal a kiss, but I dare not presume; Wert thou but a rose in thy garden, sweet fairy, And I a bold bee for to rifle its bloom, A whole summer's day would I kiss thee, my Mary!! I long to be with thee, but cannot tell how; Wert thou but the elder that grows by thy dairy, And I the blest woodbine to twine on the bough, I'd embrace thee and cling to thee ever, my Mary!
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"I love thee, sweet Mary, but love thee in fear;..."
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