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 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.