John Clare’s “Song” gives voice to a lonely lover aching for perfect closeness. In the first half, he imagines a world where he lives only with love—no other concerns—and even longs to swap selves with the beloved, believing that if he were her or she were him, love would be complete and untroubled. It’s a wistful fantasy of absolute union, where the usual barriers between two people dissolve.
But the second stanza deflates that hope. He wishes he could send his thoughts to her as fast as thinking itself, yet the moment he tries, the connection breaks down. The image of wind ruffling water and scattering reflections becomes the emotional core: his mind is like a still pool that might hold her image, but reality, like a sudden breeze, disturbs the surface so the “mirrors change and fly.” The mood is one of tender frustration—a quiet ache for a closeness that keeps slipping out of reach.