 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
359
DECAY
A BALLAD
O poesy is on the wane
For fancys visions all unfitting
I hardly know her face again
Nature herself seems on the flitting
The fields grow old & common things
The grass the sky the winds a blowing
& spots where still a beauty clings
Are sighing “going all a going”
O poesy is on the wane
I hardly know her face again
For fancys visions all unfitting
I hardly know her face again
Nature herself seems on the flitting
The fields grow old & common things
The grass the sky the winds a blowing
& spots where still a beauty clings
Are sighing “going all a going”
O poesy is on the wane
I hardly know her face again
The bank with brambles overspread
& little molehills round about it
Was more to me then laurel shades
With paths & gravel finely clouted
& streaking here & streaking there
Through shaven grass & many a border
With rutty lanes had no compare
& heaths were in a richer order
But poesy is in its wane
I hardly know her face again
& little molehills round about it
Was more to me then laurel shades
With paths & gravel finely clouted
& streaking here & streaking there
Through shaven grass & many a border
With rutty lanes had no compare
& heaths were in a richer order
But poesy is in its wane
I hardly know her face again
I sat with love by pasture streams
Aye beautys self was sitting bye
Till fields did more then edens seem
Nor could I tell the reason why
I often drank when not a dry
To pledge her health in draughts divine
Smiles made it nectar from the sky
Love turned een water into wine
O poesy is on the wane
I cannot find her face again
Aye beautys self was sitting bye
Till fields did more then edens seem
Nor could I tell the reason why
I often drank when not a dry
To pledge her health in draughts divine
Smiles made it nectar from the sky
Love turned een water into wine
O poesy is on the wane
I cannot find her face again
The sun those mornings used to find
When clouds were other-country-mountains
& heaven looked upon the mind
With groves & rocks & mottled fountains
These heavens are gone—the mountains grey
Turned mist—the sun a homeless ranger
Pursuing on a naked way
Unnoticed like a very stranger
O poesy is on its wane
Nor love nor joy is mine again
When clouds were other-country-mountains
& heaven looked upon the mind
With groves & rocks & mottled fountains
These heavens are gone—the mountains grey
Turned mist—the sun a homeless ranger
Pursuing on a naked way
Unnoticed like a very stranger
O poesy is on its wane
Nor love nor joy is mine again
360
Loves sun went down without a frown
For very joy it used to grieve us
I often think that west is gone
Ah cruel time to undecieve us
The stream it is a naked stream
Where we on sundays used to ramble
The sky hangs oer a broken dream
The brambles dwindled to a bramble
O poesy is on its wane
I cannot find her haunts again
For very joy it used to grieve us
I often think that west is gone
Ah cruel time to undecieve us
The stream it is a naked stream
Where we on sundays used to ramble
The sky hangs oer a broken dream
The brambles dwindled to a bramble
O poesy is on its wane
I cannot find her haunts again
Mere withered stalks & fading trees
& pastures spread with hills & rushes
Are all my fading vision sees
Gone gone is raptures flooding gushes
When mushrooms they were fairy bowers
Their marble pillars overswelling
& danger paused to pluck the flowers
That in their swarthy rings were dwelling
But poesys spells are on the wane
Nor joy nor fear is mine again
& pastures spread with hills & rushes
Are all my fading vision sees
Gone gone is raptures flooding gushes
When mushrooms they were fairy bowers
Their marble pillars overswelling
& danger paused to pluck the flowers
That in their swarthy rings were dwelling
But poesys spells are on the wane
Nor joy nor fear is mine again
Aye poesy hath passed away
& fancys visions undecieve us
The night hath taen the place of day
& why should passing shadows grieve us
I thought the flowers upon the hills
Where flowers from Adams open gardens
& I have had my summer thrills
& I have had my hearts rewardings
So poesy is on its wane
I hardly know her face again
& fancys visions undecieve us
The night hath taen the place of day
& why should passing shadows grieve us
I thought the flowers upon the hills
Where flowers from Adams open gardens
& I have had my summer thrills
& I have had my hearts rewardings
So poesy is on its wane
I hardly know her face again
& friendship it hath burned away
Just like a very ember cooling
A make believe on april day
That sent the simple heart a fooling
Mere jesting in an earnest way
Decieving on & still decieving
& hope is but a fancy play
& joy the art of true believing
For poesy is on the wane
O could I feel her faith again
Just like a very ember cooling
A make believe on april day
That sent the simple heart a fooling
Mere jesting in an earnest way
Decieving on & still decieving
& hope is but a fancy play
& joy the art of true believing
For poesy is on the wane
O could I feel her faith again
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |