The later poems of John Clare 1837-1864 ... General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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FLOWERS AND SPRING |
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
FLOWERS AND SPRING
1
And has the spring's all glorious eye,No lesson to the mind?
The birds that cleave the golden sky,
Things to the earth resigned;
Wild flowers that dance to every wind,
Do they no memory leave behind?
2
Aye flowers, the very name of flowers,That bloom in wood and glen;
Bring spring to me in winter hours,
And childhoods dreams again:
The primrose on the woodland lea,
Was more than wealth, and gold to me.
3
The violets by the woodland side,As thick as they could snive,
Ive talked to them with childish pride,
As things that were alive.
I find them now in mans distress,
They seem as sweet, yet valueless.
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4
The cowslips on the meadow lea,How have I run for them:
I looked with wild and childish glee,
Upon each golden gem:
And when they bowed their heads so shy,
I laughed and thought they danced for joy.
5
And when a man, in early years,How sweet they used to come;
And give me tales of smiles and tears,
And thoughts more dear than home:
Secrets which words would then reprove,
They told the names of early love.
6
The primrose turned a babbling flower,Within its sweet recess:
I blushed to see their secret bower,
And turned her name to bless.
The violet said the eyes were blue,
I loved, and did they tell me true?
7
The cowslip in meadows every where,—My hearts own thoughts would steal.
I nip't them 'cause they should not hear;
They smiled, and would reveal.
And o'er each meadow right or wrong;
They sing the name I've worshiped long.
8
The brooks that mirrored clear the sky,Full well I know the spot.
The mouse ear looked with bright blue eye,
And said forget me not.
And from the brook I turn'd away,
But heard it many an after day.
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9
The kingcup on its slender stalk,Within the pasture dell;
Would picture there a pleasant walk,
With one I loved so well.
They said how sweet at eventide,
'Twould be with true love at thy side.
10
And on the pastures woody knoll,I saw the wild blue-bell;
On sundays when I used to stroll,
With her I loved so well.
She culled their flowers the year before,
These bowed, and told the story o'er.
11
And every flower, that had a name,Would tell me who was fair,
But those without, as strangers came,
And blossomed silent there:
I stood to hear but all alone,
They bloomed and kept their thoughts unknown.
12
But seasons now have nought to say,The flowers no news to bring;
Alone I live from day to day,
Flowers seem the bier of spring;
And birds upon the bush, or tree,
All sing a different tale to me!
| The later poems of John Clare | |