'Tis Spring, My Love, 'Tis Spring
John Clare
1793 to 1864
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’Tis Spring, my love, ’tis Spring,
And the birds to sing:
If ’t was Winter, left alone with you,
Your bonny form and face,
Would make a Summer place,
And be the finest flower that ever grew.
'Tis Spring, my love, ’tis Spring,
And the hazel catkins hing,
the snowdrop has its little blebs of dew;
But that’s not so white within
As your bosom’s hidden skin—
sweetest of all flowers that ever grew.
The sun from bed,
All strewn with roses red,
But the and the loveliest crimson place
Is not so fresh fair,
Or so sweet beyond compare,
As thy blushing, smiling, happy face.
I love Spring’s early flowers,
And bloom in its first hours,
But they never half bright or lovely seem
As the blithe and happy
Of my darling’s blushing face,
And the happiness of young dream.