I sleep with thee, and wake with thee, <br />And yet thou art not there; <br />I fill my arms with thoughts of thee, <br />And press the common air. <br />Thy eyes are gazing upon mine, <br />When thou art out of sight; <br />My lips are always touching thine, <br />At morning, noon, and night. <br /> <br />I think and speak of other things <br />To keep my mind at rest: <br />But still to thee my memory clings <br />Like love in woman's breast. <br />I hide it from the world's wide eye, <br />And think and speak contrary; <br />But soft the wind comes from the sky, <br />And whispers tales of Mary. <br /> <br />The night wind whispers in my ear, <br />The moons shines in my face; <br />A burden still of chilling fear <br />I find in every place. <br />The breeze is whispering in the bush, <br />And the dews fall from the tree, <br />All sighing on, and will not hush, <br />Some pleasant tales of thee.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-mary/
