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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SUPRESSION OF A SIGH |
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 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
SUPRESSION OF A SIGH
Why do I tread my wilds around
Where peace its silence wispers here
& not one comfort to be found
To wipe aside the falling tear
Where peace its silence wispers here
& not one comfort to be found
To wipe aside the falling tear
Why thus to mourn my fate severe
Why hope alas to hope in vain
I am no worse then erst I were
I was but poor & so remain
Why hope alas to hope in vain
I am no worse then erst I were
I was but poor & so remain
While others more distrest then I
Severer urg'd to mourn then me
Look up beyond the tear the sigh
& deem them foolish vanity
Severer urg'd to mourn then me
Look up beyond the tear the sigh
& deem them foolish vanity
440
Yon wreck of many a famish'd week
That only begs to be deny'd
A smile still prints this beggars cheek
& sorrows tear is wip'd aside
That only begs to be deny'd
A smile still prints this beggars cheek
& sorrows tear is wip'd aside
There tied to family & wife
Does labour bear wants chilling frown
Still the rough edge of Irksome life
Contentment smoothly evens down
Does labour bear wants chilling frown
Still the rough edge of Irksome life
Contentment smoothly evens down
Yon pair of birds that weary roam
Have far more cause to grieve then I
Their rest is gone—their peaceful home
Could not escape the schoolboys eye
Have far more cause to grieve then I
Their rest is gone—their peaceful home
Could not escape the schoolboys eye
Their sorrow still its toil resumes
& of their loss they make the best
They chirp again & smooth their plumes
& painful build another nest
& of their loss they make the best
They chirp again & smooth their plumes
& painful build another nest
No nest have they from night to hide
Then fool to think that I alone
The killing frowns of fate abide
While Ive a cot to call my own
Then fool to think that I alone
The killing frowns of fate abide
While Ive a cot to call my own
Poor bee that labours hard the hour
In hopes to find some honied store
Vainly peeps in each rifl'd flower
To prove its sweets was robd before
In hopes to find some honied store
Vainly peeps in each rifl'd flower
To prove its sweets was robd before
441
Yet still his toil his hopes recruits
& on he hums till setting sun—
O god thou knowst my station suits
& as thou wilt—thy will be done
& on he hums till setting sun—
O god thou knowst my station suits
& as thou wilt—thy will be done
Toil on poor bee companion sweet
Live on vain world thy joys are small
Compar'd to those I hope to meet
From God my peace, my hope, my all!
Live on vain world thy joys are small
Compar'd to those I hope to meet
From God my peace, my hope, my all!
| The early poems of John Clare | |