The Poems of John Clare :: :: University of Virginia Library

Where does comfort's bosom glow?
Where lives he a tenant now?
In snug places out of doors,
Fields, or woods, or rushy moors?
No, for winter occupies
Every bit of earth and skies;
Overhead the clouds are dull,
Underfoot the roads are full
Of mire and sludge, and water too,
That slushes in the ploughman's shoe,
And spatters from the hasty horse,
That has the meadow's floods to cross.
So where is comfort? can it be,
Underneath the woodland tree,
Where the shepherd still about
Found primrose buds ere March was out,
And maidens in the summer lay
On their elbows in the hay?
And labour's self, that could not bear
To wear his lazy jacket there,
Complains as much as any one
And puts another garment on;
And still, do all he ever may,
He cannot keep the cold away.
He buttons up as on he goes,
His hat he slouches o'er his nose,
And, glad to keep the storm behind,
He turns his back upon the wind,
And knocks his hands, and stamps his toes,
And in his pockets as he goes
Will hide them—yet, do what he may,
He can't get out of winter's way.

No, 'tis not there: the trees around
Have thrown their shelter on the ground.
The sheep lie quaking underneath,
And cows seem almost starved to death,

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That rest awhile, then up again,
Then streak and try to bite in vain;
But grass is short on hill and swamp,
They bite ten times before they champ,
Till storms come on with wild affray.
Then turning heads another way
They hurkle underneath the bushes
Knee-deep among the whistling rushes,
And let them hurkle where they will
They're in the way of winter still.

So where is comfort? does he roam,
Or, what is likelier, keep at home?
Where smoke its sooty flight ascends
And green logs frizzle at both ends
With sap until it blazes high—
Till summer seems as sitting by:
When industry in haste to go
Will just one moment hold a toe,
And toil, whose clothes are on the drop,
That has but little time to stop,
Half warms his fingers where he may
And knocks them as he goes away,
To make them and to keep them warm
While doing jobs about the farm.

Where is comfort? maybe, here;
Sitting in the elbow chair,
With a pipe beneath his nose,
While the smoke at leisure goes
Up agen the mantel-tree
In a wreath of silver-grey;
With a jug of gingered ale,
Or little book that owns a tale
For merry-making, not too long,
And what is better, shorter song—
While in the chimney-top the snow
Falls right upon the fire below

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With just a little quench, and then
It seems to burn as bright agen.
And when that's gone, they look for more,
A heap of roots is at the door;
And now a song, and now a tale,
And now and then a jug of ale!
The gloomiest day and roughest weather,
Care's foot falls lighter than a feather
And joy holds both his sides together
Before he laughs, and all's akin
To comfort, who is host within;
Who lays another billet on,
Begins good cheer; and when it's gone,
The world and he are wholly quits,
The king of hearty mirth he sits.
The news so full of greedy wars,
Of struggling honours, stubborn scars,
No sooner in his presence lies
But wonder bustles with surprise,
Leaving content with heart at ease,
And noisy war as quiet peace.

With not one argument to spend
In contradicting foe or friend,
Or one worth while to waste with care,
Ease occupies his cushioned chair.
The world at earnest is but whim,
He's naught with it, or it with him.
All things in common he receives,
Nor doubts in earnest, nor believes:
He hears the weekly paper read,
Then lifts his hand above his head
His pipe to reach, his thoughts to ease,
And smokes earth's troubles into peace,
That sheds its fragrance all about,
Until he knocks the ashes out:
Then o'er his knees he pants to stoop,
And garters his loose stockings up,
And seeks his stick, and leaves his room

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To take a walk till dinner's come.
Here comfort, like the miser's pelf,
Is self all occupied with self,
Heedless of either praise or blame,
The same in all and just the same,
Whose mind amusement never lacks,
Content with last year's almanacs;
Paper and print are books with him
And difference but another's whim.
A mind so easily supplied
Makes as it thinks of all beside.

And gossip, who with industry
Could never long agree to be,
Although her tongue more toil commands
Than he can do with both his hands,
She leaves the news from door to door
And every morning looks for more—
In vain she taps the arm of ease
And tells the likeliest tale to please;
He scarcely turns his head awry
And ‘humph’ and ‘ha's’ his whole reply.
She waiting keeps the empty chair,
And cannot sit, but stands to hear
The news looked o'er—and all the rest,
Too long to listen to, is guessed;
Then bids good-day, a grace for news,
And busy idleness pursues,
As satisfied with fools' deceit
As honest people are with meat.
Her whisper worries mischief on,
Then waits until the noise is gone,
And in the tempest will contrive
To be the harmless'st thing alive,
Playing bo-peep behind the screen
At all the world, and still unseen.
A grape on thistles never grows,
And peace with gossip never goes;

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O comfort, be it mine to live,
Far from the cure she has to give,
A blameless and a quiet life,
As comfort's partner all my life;
And as to trouble, pain, or care,
Let them not have a sigh to spare;
But comfort, let me live with him,
Right sound at heart and stout of limb!
Then, comfort, edge thy chair away,
I'll be thy votary, if I may.