 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
204
MAN'S VANITY AND LIFE
Man is an insect, life his cell,
Nor lives he till death breaks the shell;
He dreameth here, and waketh there,
So what, forsooth, hath life to heir?
A painted nothing of the mind,
Whose peace we hunt, and never find;
A fairy-tale of what hath been,
Where all is heard and nothing seen;
A mystic show which thoughts devise,
A rumour clothed in prophecies;
A dream unmarred, a hope deferred,
Here all is fancy, nothing heard.
Anon, man peeps behind the screen;
The spell is out, the show is seen,
The rumour proved, and so belied,
The prophecy nigh thrown aside,
The dream half faded, woke too soon,
The hope torn up, and wellnigh done.
Anon, he lets the curtain fall;
The past's forgot, the present all,
The dream renews, the scene beguiles,
And hope's torn blossom lives and smiles.
The clouds seem gone, the skies are blue,
The sun is out—it must be true;
The dread of former storms and rain
Are naught, as they'd be ne'er again;
The flower is open, leaves are green,
The summer reigns, the air serene;
The bird hath sung and built its nest,
Love's bowers too made, and they at rest,
All nature seems in pleasure's span,
Insects seem blest, and so does man,
In spirits high, in joyance loud,
In fancy great, in nature proud,
And all but wanting wings to fly
To mingle with eternity.
Nor lives he till death breaks the shell;
He dreameth here, and waketh there,
So what, forsooth, hath life to heir?
A painted nothing of the mind,
Whose peace we hunt, and never find;
A fairy-tale of what hath been,
Where all is heard and nothing seen;
A mystic show which thoughts devise,
A rumour clothed in prophecies;
A dream unmarred, a hope deferred,
Here all is fancy, nothing heard.
Anon, man peeps behind the screen;
The spell is out, the show is seen,
205
The prophecy nigh thrown aside,
The dream half faded, woke too soon,
The hope torn up, and wellnigh done.
Anon, he lets the curtain fall;
The past's forgot, the present all,
The dream renews, the scene beguiles,
And hope's torn blossom lives and smiles.
The clouds seem gone, the skies are blue,
The sun is out—it must be true;
The dread of former storms and rain
Are naught, as they'd be ne'er again;
The flower is open, leaves are green,
The summer reigns, the air serene;
The bird hath sung and built its nest,
Love's bowers too made, and they at rest,
All nature seems in pleasure's span,
Insects seem blest, and so does man,
In spirits high, in joyance loud,
In fancy great, in nature proud,
And all but wanting wings to fly
To mingle with eternity.
Anon he feasts: life's viands shine,
Mirth flutters, and prepares to dine:
The hall's decked out, the guests are come,
Eyes serve for suns and roses bloom;
The dance is off, the music sweet,
And loud the prate of merry feet.
Aye doth my ear deceive my will—
I turn to join, and all is still:
That moment revel's sons were gay,
And this is silent—where are they?
'Twas then their morn, but now 'tis noon,
So guests are fed and dinner done,
The wine drank up and bottle drained,
The riddle told though unexplained,
The songs all sung, the jests all said,
The dance is done and all is sped.
Mirth flutters, and prepares to dine:
The hall's decked out, the guests are come,
Eyes serve for suns and roses bloom;
The dance is off, the music sweet,
And loud the prate of merry feet.
Aye doth my ear deceive my will—
I turn to join, and all is still:
That moment revel's sons were gay,
And this is silent—where are they?
'Twas then their morn, but now 'tis noon,
So guests are fed and dinner done,
The wine drank up and bottle drained,
The riddle told though unexplained,
The songs all sung, the jests all said,
The dance is done and all is sped.
206
The insect fares as summer fares—
Its joys are short, and so were theirs.
Sleep came ere mirth did well begin,
Death, where they feasted, owns the inn;
So in he went to claim his pay
And clear the wasted scraps away—
When eyes grew dim, the roses wan,
The rooms all still: and where is man?
Gone like a star from heaven's face,
Nor e'en his shadow heirs his place.
Its joys are short, and so were theirs.
Sleep came ere mirth did well begin,
Death, where they feasted, owns the inn;
So in he went to claim his pay
And clear the wasted scraps away—
When eyes grew dim, the roses wan,
The rooms all still: and where is man?
Gone like a star from heaven's face,
Nor e'en his shadow heirs his place.
| The Poems of John Clare | |