 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
375
THE POET'S DEATH
The world is taking little heed
And plods from day to day:
The vulgar flourish like a weed,
The learned pass away.
And plods from day to day:
The vulgar flourish like a weed,
The learned pass away.
We miss him on the summer path
The lonely summer day,
Where mowers cut the pleasant swath
And maidens make the hay.
The lonely summer day,
Where mowers cut the pleasant swath
And maidens make the hay.
The vulgar take but little heed;
The garden wants his care;
There lies the book he used to read,
There stands the empty chair.
The garden wants his care;
There lies the book he used to read,
There stands the empty chair.
The boat laid up, the voyage o'er,
And passed the stormy wave,
The world is going as before,
The poet in his grave.
And passed the stormy wave,
The world is going as before,
The poet in his grave.
| The Poems of John Clare | |