The later poems of John Clare 1837-1864 ... General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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OVERLAND MONTHLY
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 | The later poems of John Clare |  |
7
OVERLAND MONTHLY
8
THE PANSY
It does me good, thou flower of spring,
Thy blossoms to behold;
Thou bloom'st when birds begin to sing,
In purple and in gold.
Thy blossoms to behold;
Thou bloom'st when birds begin to sing,
In purple and in gold.
Along the garden-beds so neat
Thy flowers their blooms display,
When sparrows chirp and lambkins bleat
And hopes look up for May.
Thy flowers their blooms display,
When sparrows chirp and lambkins bleat
And hopes look up for May.
Then Emma thinks the heart's-ease blooms
When she the pansy sees;
But I see sleep among the tombs,
With heart that's ill at ease,
When she the pansy sees;
But I see sleep among the tombs,
With heart that's ill at ease,
That asks for what it's lost and loved—
A quiet home and friends,
Where nature's feelings were approved
And peace made life amends;
A quiet home and friends,
Where nature's feelings were approved
And peace made life amends;
Where love was all I had to sing,
And there these pansy flowers
Came shining in the dews of spring
To cheer the sunny hours.
And there these pansy flowers
Came shining in the dews of spring
To cheer the sunny hours.
But years may pass, as they have passed,
And I may hope in vain,
With hopes that linger to the last,
To see them bloom again.
And I may hope in vain,
With hopes that linger to the last,
To see them bloom again.
9
The fairest flower that ever bloomed,
Or garden ever blest,
Looks cold to care, and ne'er was doomed
To ease the heart's unrest.
Or garden ever blest,
Looks cold to care, and ne'er was doomed
To ease the heart's unrest.
The heart's-ease in her happy hour
Might Emma's fancy please,
But life will often pluck the flower
And feel but ill at ease.
Might Emma's fancy please,
But life will often pluck the flower
And feel but ill at ease.
SONG ON TOBACCO
Some sing about love in their season of roses,
But love has in sorrow no blossoms to wear;
So I'll sing tobacco, that cheers and composes,
And lulls us asleep in our trouble and care.
So here's to tobacco, the Indian weed,
The peaceful companion through trouble and strife;
May it prove every smoker's best friend in his need,
And be to his heart a restorer through life.
But love has in sorrow no blossoms to wear;
So I'll sing tobacco, that cheers and composes,
And lulls us asleep in our trouble and care.
So here's to tobacco, the Indian weed,
The peaceful companion through trouble and strife;
May it prove every smoker's best friend in his need,
And be to his heart a restorer through life.
There's the husbandman hourly tormented with care,
By his daily companion, a troublesome wife;
But a pipe of tobacco will soothe his despair,
And bring him sunshine in the shadows of life.
Then here's to tobacco, the Indian weed,
May it bless honest smokers with peace to the end,
For such a companion is friendship indeed,
Since it proves in the midst of all trouble a friend.
By his daily companion, a troublesome wife;
But a pipe of tobacco will soothe his despair,
And bring him sunshine in the shadows of life.
Then here's to tobacco, the Indian weed,
May it bless honest smokers with peace to the end,
For such a companion is friendship indeed,
Since it proves in the midst of all trouble a friend.
10
The statesman, the lawyer, the parson will find,
When business oppresses and sorrow grows ripe,
To steer clear of follies and strengthen the mind,
There's nothing like leisure and smoking a pipe.
So here's to that cheering tobacco once more;
May each honest smoker prove blest with the weed,
May it mend broken hopes and lost pleasures restore,
And always prove dear as a friend in his need.
When business oppresses and sorrow grows ripe,
To steer clear of follies and strengthen the mind,
There's nothing like leisure and smoking a pipe.
So here's to that cheering tobacco once more;
May each honest smoker prove blest with the weed,
May it mend broken hopes and lost pleasures restore,
And always prove dear as a friend in his need.
[Beautiful woman, visions dwell]
Beautiful woman, visions dwellOf heaven's joy about thee,
And every step I take is hell
That walks thro' life without thee.
[When with our little ones we spent]
When with our little ones we spent
Each Sunday after tea,
And up the wood's dark side we went
Or pasture's rushy lea,
To look among the woodland boughs
To find the bird's retreat,
Or crop the cowslip for the cows;
[OMITTED]
Each Sunday after tea,
And up the wood's dark side we went
Or pasture's rushy lea,
To look among the woodland boughs
To find the bird's retreat,
Or crop the cowslip for the cows;
[OMITTED]
11
Then sat to rest the little feet
In many a pleasant place,
And see the lambs, who tried to bleat,
Come first in every race,
Then laugh'd the children's joys to view,
Who ran across the lea
At birds that from the rushes flew,
And many a wandering bee.
In many a pleasant place,
And see the lambs, who tried to bleat,
Come first in every race,
Then laugh'd the children's joys to view,
Who ran across the lea
At birds that from the rushes flew,
And many a wandering bee.
[You promised me, a year ago]
COLINYou promised me, a year ago,
When autumn bleach'd the mistletoe,
That you and I should be as one;
But now another autumn's gone—
Its solemn knell is in the blast,
And love's bright sun is overcast;
Yet flowers will bloom and birds will sing,
And e'en the winter claim the spring.
LUCY
The hedges will be green again,
And flowers will come on hill and plain;
And though we meet a rainy day,
The hawthorn will be white with May.
If love and nature still agree,
Green leaves will clothe the trysting-tree;
And when these pleasing days you view,
Think Lucy's heart yet be true.
12
[Sweeter than roses was the face]
Sweeter than roses was the faceFor whom I pluck'd the flower;
Sweeter than heaven was the place
In that delightful hour.
[Tis autumn now & harvests reign]
Tis autumn now & harvests reign
Brown swelling hills & hollow vales
The sudden shower sweeps oer the plain
& health breaths in the shivering gales
The coveys rise—the sportsman joys
& in the stubbles bleeding fall
The hunters face glows in the chase
He loves to hear the bugle call
That loud through wood & dingle rings
As oer the fence the courser springs
Brown swelling hills & hollow vales
The sudden shower sweeps oer the plain
& health breaths in the shivering gales
The coveys rise—the sportsman joys
& in the stubbles bleeding fall
The hunters face glows in the chase
He loves to hear the bugle call
That loud through wood & dingle rings
As oer the fence the courser springs
The songs of home in every field
From merry harvesters is heard
The hare as yet from harm will shield
Where barley waves its tawney beard
Some sing & blink oer kegs of drink
& love the drunkards brawls to own—
I love to dream by valleys stream
& live with quiet peace alone
The brook & wood the vale & tree
Are the green homes of joy to me
From merry harvesters is heard
The hare as yet from harm will shield
Where barley waves its tawney beard
Some sing & blink oer kegs of drink
13
I love to dream by valleys stream
& live with quiet peace alone
The brook & wood the vale & tree
Are the green homes of joy to me
Some love to drink adieu to care
I love the solitude of rest
Some meet with woman false & fair
& think it joy to be distrest
The hazle nook the mossy brook
I love from feelings of the boy
The broad topt oak the ravens croak
& all of nature brings me joy
There solitude of sun & shade
A paradise on earth hath made
I love the solitude of rest
Some meet with woman false & fair
& think it joy to be distrest
The hazle nook the mossy brook
I love from feelings of the boy
The broad topt oak the ravens croak
& all of nature brings me joy
There solitude of sun & shade
A paradise on earth hath made
& yet the love of woman still
Hath been my sunshine all along
Her voice along the upland hill
Was music in my early song
Her love confest is still the best
To comfort every care & thrall
In poesys page her heritage
Reigns still the empress over all
Theres not a land where life hath been
But looks on woman as its queen
Hath been my sunshine all along
Her voice along the upland hill
Was music in my early song
Her love confest is still the best
To comfort every care & thrall
In poesys page her heritage
Reigns still the empress over all
Theres not a land where life hath been
But looks on woman as its queen
14
[I long to forget them—the love of my life—]
I long to forget them—the love of my life—
To forget them, and keep this lorn being my own;
The honey is cell'd in such changeable strife,
I long to keep sorrow and trouble my own—
To live in myself, and to be what I am,
And to leave earth's delusions and shadows behind,
Where love may not cheat, nor its happiness damn:
The shadows of hope I with nature may find.
To forget them, and keep this lorn being my own;
The honey is cell'd in such changeable strife,
I long to keep sorrow and trouble my own—
To live in myself, and to be what I am,
And to leave earth's delusions and shadows behind,
Where love may not cheat, nor its happiness damn:
The shadows of hope I with nature may find.
O, bear me away from this changeable strife,
To the childhood of nature, the linnet and bee!
Let her flowers be my children, her freedom my wife,
Where God, my Creator, is constant and free.
The flower on the white bush, the nest in the ground,
Which my own happy childhood once shouted to find;
Let me live in those scenes, with the wind blowing round,
And I shall be happy to bear it in mind,
To the childhood of nature, the linnet and bee!
Let her flowers be my children, her freedom my wife,
Where God, my Creator, is constant and free.
The flower on the white bush, the nest in the ground,
Which my own happy childhood once shouted to find;
Let me live in those scenes, with the wind blowing round,
And I shall be happy to bear it in mind,
To think of the joys of that once-happy spot
Where I lived with my children the whole summer long—
The mother, the garden, the books and the cot,
The theme and affection of many a song.
The snowdrop and crocus are first in the year,
And there the tall foxglove its red-freckled bell
To the summer and bee was delicious and dear;
And down in the homestead, the pond and the dell
Where I lived with my children the whole summer long—
The mother, the garden, the books and the cot,
The theme and affection of many a song.
The snowdrop and crocus are first in the year,
And there the tall foxglove its red-freckled bell
To the summer and bee was delicious and dear;
And down in the homestead, the pond and the dell
15
Would hide me an hour in its hazel so green,
While the world and its troubles kept far, far away;
And there silent solitude kept me unseen,
With love-ties around me the whole of the day.
And there was the robin, perch'd on the ash tree,
Would sing me a tune, and then drop for a worm;
And there the coy thrush my companion would be,
While the hazel-bush sheltered my seat from a storm.
While the world and its troubles kept far, far away;
And there silent solitude kept me unseen,
With love-ties around me the whole of the day.
And there was the robin, perch'd on the ash tree,
Would sing me a tune, and then drop for a worm;
And there the coy thrush my companion would be,
While the hazel-bush sheltered my seat from a storm.
And there came the linnet, with wool in its bill,
To build its new nest in the hedge or the thorn;
And there I could see the black sails of the mill,
And the spire in the gray, sleeping light of the morn.
And there came the heavy-wing'd kite o'er the lea,
And the old hens they call'd for their chickens aloud;
And there the black crow came and perch'd on the tree,
And the lark hid itself in the black-bosom'd cloud.
To build its new nest in the hedge or the thorn;
And there I could see the black sails of the mill,
And the spire in the gray, sleeping light of the morn.
And there came the heavy-wing'd kite o'er the lea,
And the old hens they call'd for their chickens aloud;
And there the black crow came and perch'd on the tree,
And the lark hid itself in the black-bosom'd cloud.
O, bear me away from this tumult and strife
Where woman or falsehood is not to be found—
To the scenes which I loved in the childhood of life,
In the fields which the thorn-hedges sheltered around;
Where trees without order in spinney clumps stand,
And in corners the aged or the whattled sheep pen;
O bear me to those dearest spots in the land,
And the peace of my lowly thatch'd cottage again!
Where woman or falsehood is not to be found—
To the scenes which I loved in the childhood of life,
In the fields which the thorn-hedges sheltered around;
Where trees without order in spinney clumps stand,
And in corners the aged or the whattled sheep pen;
O bear me to those dearest spots in the land,
And the peace of my lowly thatch'd cottage again!
| The later poems of John Clare | |