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The Flood

Written by: John Clare | Biography
 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.



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