My love she wears a cotton plaid, <br />A bonnet of the straw; <br />Her cheeks are leaves of roses spread, <br />Her lips are like the haw. <br />In truth she is as sweet a maid <br />As true love ever saw. <br /> <br />Her curls are ever in my eyes, <br />As nets by Cupid flung; <br />Her voice will oft my sleep surprise, <br />More sweet then ballad sung. <br />O Mary Bateman's curling hair! <br />I wake, and there is nothing there. <br /> <br />I wake, and fall asleep again, <br />The same delights in visions rise; <br />There's nothing can appear more plain <br />Than those rose cheeks and those bright eyes. <br />I wake again, and all alone <br />Sits Darkness on his ebon throne. <br /> <br />All silent runs the silver Trent, <br />The cobweb veils are all wet through, <br />A silver bead's on every bent, <br />On every leaf a bleb of dew. <br />I sighed, the moon it shone so clear; <br />Was Mary Bateman walking here?<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mary-bateman/
