The Poetry Corner

At The Foot Of Clifford Hill

By John Clare

Who loves the white-thorn tree, And the river running free? There a maiden stood with me In Summer weather. Near a cottage far from town, While the sun went brightly down O'er the meadows green and brown, We loved together. How sweet her drapery flowed, While the moor-cock oddly crowed; I took the kiss which love bestowed, Under the white-thorn tree. Soft winds the water curled, The trees their branches furled; Sweetest nook in all the world Is where she stood with me. Calm came the evening air, The sky was sweet and fair, In the river shadowed there, Close by the hawthorn tree. Round her neck I clasped my arms, And kissed her rosy charms; O'er the flood the hackle swarms, Where the maiden stood with me. O there's something falls so dear On the music of the ear, Where the river runs so clear, And my lover met with me. At the foot of Clifford Hill Still I hear the clacking mill, And the river's running still Under the trysting tree.