The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
 | I. |
|
|
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. | LIFE'S LIKENESSES (b)
|
| a. |
| b. |
| II. |
|
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
| a. |
| b. |
 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
394
LIFE'S LIKENESSES (b)
(Written in imitation of the Poetry of the 17th Century.)
LIFE is—what?
It is the shooting of a star,
That gleams along the trackless air,
And vanishes, almost ere seen, to nought.
And such is Man—
He shines and flutters for a span,
And is forgot.
It is the shooting of a star,
That gleams along the trackless air,
And vanishes, almost ere seen, to nought.
And such is Man—
He shines and flutters for a span,
And is forgot.
Life is—what?
It is the vermeil of the rose,
That blooms but till the bleak wind blows,
Then, all entomb'd in sweets, doth fade and rot.
And such is Man—
He struts in brav'ry for a span,
And is forgot.
It is the vermeil of the rose,
That blooms but till the bleak wind blows,
Then, all entomb'd in sweets, doth fade and rot.
And such is Man—
He struts in brav'ry for a span,
And is forgot.
Life is—what?
It is a dew-drop of the morn,
That quiv'ring hangs upon the thorn,
Till quaff'd by sunbeams, 'tis no longer aught.
And such is Man—
He's steep'd in sorrow for a span,
And melts—forgot.
It is a dew-drop of the morn,
That quiv'ring hangs upon the thorn,
Till quaff'd by sunbeams, 'tis no longer aught.
And such is Man—
He's steep'd in sorrow for a span,
And melts—forgot.
Life is—what?
A stone, whose fall doth circles make
On the smooth surface of the lake,
Which spread till one and all forsake the spot.
And such is Man—
'Midst friends he revels for a span,
And sinks—forgot.
A stone, whose fall doth circles make
On the smooth surface of the lake,
Which spread till one and all forsake the spot.
And such is Man—
'Midst friends he revels for a span,
And sinks—forgot.
395
Life is—what?
It is a bubble on the main,
Rais'd by a little globe of rain,
Whose heir destroys the fabric it hath wrought.
And such is Man—
Swell'd into being for a span,
And broke—forgot.
It is a bubble on the main,
Rais'd by a little globe of rain,
Whose heir destroys the fabric it hath wrought.
And such is Man—
Swell'd into being for a span,
And broke—forgot.
Life is—what?
A shadow on the mountain's side,
Of rack, that doth on aether ride,
Driv'n by the Northern gale, with tempests fraught.
And such is Man—
He hangs on greatness for a span,
And is forgot.
A shadow on the mountain's side,
Of rack, that doth on aether ride,
Driv'n by the Northern gale, with tempests fraught.
And such is Man—
He hangs on greatness for a span,
And is forgot.
Life is—what?
It is the sound of cannon near,
Which strikes upon the startled ear,
And ceases ere we can distinguish aught.
And such is Man—
He frights and blusters for a span,
And is forgot.
It is the sound of cannon near,
Which strikes upon the startled ear,
And ceases ere we can distinguish aught.
And such is Man—
He frights and blusters for a span,
And is forgot.
Life is—what?
It is the swallow's sojournment,
Who, ere green Summer's robe is rent,
Flies to some distant bourne, by instinct taught.
And such is Man—
He rents his dwelling for a span,
And flits—forgot.
It is the swallow's sojournment,
Who, ere green Summer's robe is rent,
Flies to some distant bourne, by instinct taught.
And such is Man—
He rents his dwelling for a span,
And flits—forgot.
And is this—Life?
Oh yes! and had I time to tell,
A hundred shapes more transient still—
But, whilst I speak, Fate whets its slaughterous knife,
And such is Man—
While reck'ning o'er Life's little span,
Death ends the strife.
Oh yes! and had I time to tell,
A hundred shapes more transient still—
But, whilst I speak, Fate whets its slaughterous knife,
And such is Man—
While reck'ning o'er Life's little span,
Death ends the strife.
| The early poems of John Clare | |