The speaker in John Clare’s “Song” flatly refuses to perform romantic agony. No fake sighs or tears for an unreturning beloved — the soul has gone dry as a desert where love used to be. There’s a blunt rejection of groveling: they will not crawl like a worm or beg for kisses and attention. Real love, the speaker says, is the honey, not the bee; it’s a sweetness that shouldn’t sour into bitterness just to flatter “thy lily neck, rose cheek, and all.” The poem broadens its scorn to include a village girl named Jenny and, finally, any face hiding a heart of stone. What pulses through these lines is a fierce, wounded independence. The mood is not gentle heartbreak but something closer to clean anger — a person shutting the door, planting their feet, and deciding that self-respect matters more than a false embrace. The tight rhymes and short lines land like a snapped twig, brittle and final.
Song — Summary
I would not feign a single sigh Nor weep a single tear for thee: The soul within these orbs burns dry; A desert spreads where love should be. I would not be a worm to crawl A writhing suppliant in thy way; For love is life, is heaven, and all The beams of an immortal day.
For sighs are idle things and vain, And tears for idiots vainly fall. I would not kiss thy face again Nor round thy shining slippers crawl. Love is the honey, not the bee, Nor would I turn its sweets to gall For all the beauty found in thee, Thy lily neck, rose cheek, and all.
I would not feign a single tale Thy kindness or thy love to seek; Nor sigh for Jenny of the Vale, Her ruby smile or rosy cheek. I would not have a pain to own For those dark curls and those bright eyes A frowning lip, a heart of stone, False love and folly I despise.