The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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TO AN OAKEN STEM |
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 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
363
TO AN OAKEN STEM
& here I behold thee a young pliant tree
& in some far distant day
Can boast thy origin when talking of thee
When my head may be soberd in grey
But soon shall thy branches above me grow up
Their long shadows darken the spot
& when no more needing my watering cup
Soon soon shall my care be forgot
& in some far distant day
Can boast thy origin when talking of thee
When my head may be soberd in grey
But soon shall thy branches above me grow up
Their long shadows darken the spot
& when no more needing my watering cup
Soon soon shall my care be forgot
As others shall follow successors to me
To seek future shelter of thine
As little theyll think thee a large spreading tree
As once a small acorn of mine
& soft shall they listen the winds in thee sigh
When I shall be deaf to the sound
& gay shall the prime of thy [youth] flourish high
When mine moulders low in the ground
To seek future shelter of thine
As little theyll think thee a large spreading tree
As once a small acorn of mine
& soft shall they listen the winds in thee sigh
When I shall be deaf to the sound
& gay shall the prime of thy [youth] flourish high
When mine moulders low in the ground
364
How painful & pleasing reflection looks up
On the changes this life does endure
Last year a brown acorn thou shelld from thy cup
& now thou'rt a trees miniature
How anxious one lingers on what follows next
& the end of whats coming to learn
But here the dark scene in a misterys perplext
& conjectures but dimly discern
On the changes this life does endure
Last year a brown acorn thou shelld from thy cup
& now thou'rt a trees miniature
How anxious one lingers on what follows next
& the end of whats coming to learn
But here the dark scene in a misterys perplext
& conjectures but dimly discern
One fancys & sighs & one feareth it much
Some owner in gains rude abuse
As the blooms of thy boughs are but little to such
Should blight thy lifes prime for a use
& when to thy planting protector thourt lost
'Neath the ax thy complainings & all
To stand in some yard thy own trunk as a post
Recording thy foes & thy fall
Some owner in gains rude abuse
As the blooms of thy boughs are but little to such
Should blight thy lifes prime for a use
& when to thy planting protector thourt lost
'Neath the ax thy complainings & all
To stand in some yard thy own trunk as a post
Recording thy foes & thy fall
Or doubtless a station more high thou shalt boast
In joining the crowns loyal trees
& mixing thy thunder with the wild warring host
Go to plough the salt brine of the seas
& when to thy birth place & owner forgot
In fresh foreign climates to range
The hand that once dropt thee in thy unshifted spot
Shall little be dreaming the change
In joining the crowns loyal trees
& mixing thy thunder with the wild warring host
Go to plough the salt brine of the seas
& when to thy birth place & owner forgot
In fresh foreign climates to range
The hand that once dropt thee in thy unshifted spot
Shall little be dreaming the change
O far better luck little promise to thee
Do I hope from this blossom of thine
Far far be the meddler to injure the tree
Or disturb this once acorn of mine
O may thy thin stem lift its branches on high
& waver their shadows around
& thus may thou live & thus may thou die
Till thy hollow trunk rots to the ground
Do I hope from this blossom of thine
Far far be the meddler to injure the tree
Or disturb this once acorn of mine
O may thy thin stem lift its branches on high
& waver their shadows around
& thus may thou live & thus may thou die
Till thy hollow trunk rots to the ground
365
O would but some follow as tasteful as I
When age spreads this promise of thine
Or could some witchd bard with his wild rolling eye
Fall heir to this Acorn of mine
Long long should the wind in thy curly top sigh
& thy leaves evens wisperings wave
Long long should thy bloom lift into branches on high
When mine was decayd in the grave
When age spreads this promise of thine
Or could some witchd bard with his wild rolling eye
Fall heir to this Acorn of mine
Long long should the wind in thy curly top sigh
& thy leaves evens wisperings wave
Long long should thy bloom lift into branches on high
When mine was decayd in the grave
| The early poems of John Clare | |