 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
PLEASURES OF POESY
To me hath poesy been a recompenseAnd pleasure not to be described but by
The inward thought; words cannot tell from whence
The feelings that the still heart profits by
In brooding moods where fancy loves to lie
Afar from all ambitions but her own,
Picturing strange landscapes of delight and joy,
Beauty's delightful places, where the eye
Sees things more fair than earth hath ever known,
Where the great masters of the past inherit
Green memories and glad visions that atone
For all the troubles and disquietude
That spurning fortune leaveth with their merit,
Marring their lives with tempests ever rude.
| The Poems of John Clare | |