 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
442
THE INSTINCT OF HOPE
Is there another world for this frail dustTo warm with life & be itself again
Somthing about me daily speaks there must
& why should instinct nourish hopes in vain
Tis natures prophecy that such will be
& every thing seems struggling to explain
The close sealed volume of its mystery
Time wandering onward keeps its usual pace
As seeming anxious of eternity
To meet that calm & find a resting place
Een the small violet feels a future power
& waits each year renewing blooms to bring
& surely man is no inferior flower
To die unworthy of a second spring
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |