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The Flood

 I thought my true love slept; 
Behind her chair I crept 
And pulled out a long pin; 
The golden flood came out, 
She shook it all about, 
With both our faces in.
Ah! little wren, I know Your mossy, small nest now A windy, cold place is; No eye can see my face, Howe'er it watch the place Where I half drown in bliss.
When I am drowned hald dead, She laughs and shakes her head; Flogged by her hair-waves, I Withdraw my face from there; But never once, I swear, She heard a mercy cry.

by John Clare
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