 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
HONESTY
There is a valued though a stubborn weed
That blooms but seldom & thats found but rare
In sunless places where it cannot seed
Would earth for truths sake had more room to spare
Cant hates it—hypocrites condemn it—& the herd
Seeking self interest frown & pass it bye
Tis trampled on—tis bantered—& deterred
Tis scoffed—& mocked at—yet it doth not die
But like a diamond for a century lost
Buried in darkness & obscurity
When found again it looses not in cost
But keeps its value & its purity
By time unsullied—still the prince of gems
& first of jewels in all diadems
That blooms but seldom & thats found but rare
In sunless places where it cannot seed
Would earth for truths sake had more room to spare
Cant hates it—hypocrites condemn it—& the herd
Seeking self interest frown & pass it bye
Tis trampled on—tis bantered—& deterred
Tis scoffed—& mocked at—yet it doth not die
But like a diamond for a century lost
Buried in darkness & obscurity
When found again it looses not in cost
But keeps its value & its purity
By time unsullied—still the prince of gems
& first of jewels in all diadems
412
The rich man claims it—but he often buys
Its substitute that is not what it seems
While poverty enobled in disguise
Its simple bloom oft worships & esteems
Knaves boast possesion—but they forge its name
Mobs laud & praise it—but with them tis noise
Or the mere passport for some hidden game
Beneath whose garb self interest lurks & lies
Tis by the good man only deemed a prize
Too valued to be scoffed at or opprest
Tis ever more respected by the wise
Though thousands treat it as a common jest
& that thou mayest not slight so grand a dower
Tis honesty go thou & wear the flower
Its substitute that is not what it seems
While poverty enobled in disguise
Its simple bloom oft worships & esteems
Knaves boast possesion—but they forge its name
Mobs laud & praise it—but with them tis noise
Or the mere passport for some hidden game
Beneath whose garb self interest lurks & lies
Tis by the good man only deemed a prize
Too valued to be scoffed at or opprest
Tis ever more respected by the wise
Though thousands treat it as a common jest
& that thou mayest not slight so grand a dower
Tis honesty go thou & wear the flower
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |