'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...A PORTRAIT OF MY ROOF by JAMES GALVIN WHAT THE BULLET SANG by FRANCIS BRET HARTE TO R.K. by JAMES KENNETH STEPHEN UNSEASONABLE SNOWS by ALFRED AUSTIN WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM AT CLIFTON by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |