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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 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
EFFUSION
Ah little did I think in times thats pastBy summer burnt or numbd by winters frost
Delving the ditch a livlihood to earn
Or lumping corn out in a dusty barn
With aching bones returning home at night
& sitting down with weary hand to write
Ah little did I think as then unknown
Thou artless ryhmes I even blusht to own
Woud be one day applauded & approvd
By learning notic'd & by genius lovd
God knows my hopes were many but my pain
Dampt all the prospects which I hopd to gain
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In which Ive oft slung back in deep despair
Hadst thou expression thou midst easy tell
The pains & all that I have known too well
Twoud be but sorrows tale yet still twoud be
A tale of truth & passing sweet to me
How oft upon my hand Ive laid my head
& thought how poverty deformd our shed
Lookd on each parents face I feign had cheerd
Where sorrow triumphd & pale want appeard
& sighd & hopd & wishd some day woud come
When I might bring a blessing to their home
That toil & merit comforts had in store
To bid the tear defile their cheeks no more
Who that has feelings woud not wish to be
A friend to parents such as mine to me
Who in distress broke their last crust in twain
& tho want pincht the remnant broke again
& still if craving of their scanty bread
Gave their last mouthful that I might be fed
Nor for their own wants tear drops followd free
Worse anguish stung—they had no more for me
& now hopes sun is looking brighter out
& spreading thin the clouds of fear & doubt
That long in gloomy sad suspense to me
Hid the long waited smiles I wisht to see
& now my parents helping you is sweet
The rudest havoc fortune coud compleat
A piteous couple blest wi little friends
Where pain & poverty have had their ends
Ill be thy crutch my father lean on me
Weakness knits stubbor[n] while its bearing thee
& hard shall fall the shock of fortunes frown
To eke thy sorrows ere it breaks me down
& thou my mother kindness shall be met
& ere Im able will I pay the debt
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My last earnd sixpence will I brake wi' thee
& when my dwindld sum wornt more divide
Then take the all—to fate Ill leave the rest
In helping thee Ill always feel a pride
Nor think Im happy till ye both are blest
| The early poems of John Clare | |