Written by
William Blake |
O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm.
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
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Written by
John Clare |
'Tis evening; the black snail has got on his track,
And gone to its nest is the wren,
And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back,
Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.
The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot
Where his shadow reached when he first came,
And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut
Two letters that stand for love's name.
The evening comes in with the wishes of love,
And the shepherd he looks on the flowers,
And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove,
And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.
For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love,
Where nothing can hear or intrude;
It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove,
In beautiful green solitude.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
SWEET closes the ev’ning on Craigieburn Wood,
And blythely awaukens the morrow;
But the pride o’ the spring in the Craigieburn Wood
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow.
Chorus.—Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie,
And O to be lying beyond thee!
O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep
That’s laid in the bed beyond thee!
I see the spreading leaves and flowers,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But pleasure they hae nane for me,
While care my heart is wringing.
Beyond thee, &c.
I can na tell, I maun na tell,
I daur na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
Beyond thee, &c.
I see thee gracefu’, straight and tall,
I see thee sweet and bonie;
But oh, what will my torment be,
If thou refuse thy Johnie!
Beyond thee, &c.
To see thee in another’s arms,
In love to lie and languish,
’Twad be my dead, that will be seen,
My heart wad burst wi’ anguish.
Beyond thee, &c.
But Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine,
Say thou lo’es nane before me;
And a’ may days o’ life to come
I’ll gratefully adore thee,
Beyond thee, &c.
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Written by
Robert Burns |
SWEET fa’s the eve on Craigieburn,
And blythe awakes the morrow;
But a’ the pride o’ Spring’s return
Can yield me nocht but sorrow.
I see the flowers and spreading trees,
I hear the wild birds singing;
But what a weary wight can please,
And Care his bosom wringing!
Fain, fain would I my griefs impart,
Yet dare na for your anger;
But secret love will break my heart,
If I conceal it langer.
If thou refuse to pity me,
If thou shalt love another,
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree,
Around my grave they’ll wither.
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