'Dear John (the letter ran), it can't, can't be, For Father's gone to Chorley Fair with Sam, And Mother's storing Apples, -- Prue and Me Up to our Elbows making Damson Jam: But we shall meet before a Week is gone, -- "'Tis a long Lane that has no turning," John! 'Only till Sunday next, and then you'll wait Behind the White-Thorn, by the broken Stile -- We can go round and catch them at the Gate, All to Ourselves, for nearly one long Mile; Dear Prue won't look, and Father he'll go on, And Sam's two Eyes are all for Cissy, John! 'John, she's so smart, -- with every Ribbon new, Flame-coloured Sack, and Crimson Padesoy: As proud as proud; and has the Vapours too, Just like My Lady; -- calls poor Sam a Boy, And vows no Sweetheart's worth the Thinking-on Till he's past Thirty ... I know better, John! 'My Dear, I don't think that I thought of much Before we knew each other, I and you; And now, why, John, your least, least Finger-touch, Gives me enough to think a Summer through. See, for I send you Something! There, 'tis gone! Look in this corner, -- mind you find it, John!' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SONNETS FROM THE PORTUGUESE: 28 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING LACHIN Y GAIR by GEORGE GORDON BYRON SONNET by ALICE RUTH MOORE DUNBAR-NELSON THE COSMIC TRAIL by EDWIN M. ABBOTT THE HAYMAKER'S SONG by ALFRED AUSTIN THE DRUNKEN DESPERADO by BAIRD BOYD |