The Poetry Corner

The Lost One

By John Clare

I seek her in the shady grove, And by the silent stream; I seek her where my fancies rove, In many a happy dream; I seek her where I find her not, In Spring and Summer weather: My thoughts paint many a happy spot, But we ne'er meet together. The trees and bushes speak my choice, And in the Summer shower I often hear her pleasant voice, In many a silent hour: I see her in the Summer brook, In blossoms sweet and fair; In every pleasant place I look My fancy paints her there. The wind blows through the forest trees, And cheers the pleasant day; There her sweet voice is sure to be To lull my cares away. The very hedges find a voice, So does the gurgling rill; But still the object of my choice Is lost and absent still.