 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
IDLE FAME
I would not wish the burning blaze
Of fame around a restless world,
The thunder and the storm of praise
In crowded tumults heard and hurled.
Of fame around a restless world,
The thunder and the storm of praise
In crowded tumults heard and hurled.
I would not be a flower to stand
The stare of every passer-by;
But in some nook of fairyland,
Seen in the praise of beauty's eye.
The stare of every passer-by;
But in some nook of fairyland,
Seen in the praise of beauty's eye.
I would not be the common song
For all the world to shout and praise,
But just a theme remembered long
By beauty in its sweetest days.
For all the world to shout and praise,
But just a theme remembered long
By beauty in its sweetest days.
I would not be applause's guest
Where crowded praises fall in showers,
But just a joy in beauty's breast,
The music of her silent hours.
Where crowded praises fall in showers,
But just a joy in beauty's breast,
The music of her silent hours.
I would not be the common talk,
But just a choice in beauty's song,
A whisper muttered in her walk,
A rapture dropping from her tongue.
But just a choice in beauty's song,
A whisper muttered in her walk,
A rapture dropping from her tongue.
I would not give a wish to see
The praise that fashion has to bring,
But feel it more than praise to be
The song that beauty loves to sing,
The praise that fashion has to bring,
But feel it more than praise to be
The song that beauty loves to sing,
266
The kerchiefs that her bosom deck,
Her airy garments' easy flow,
And, wavering round her taper neck,
Dark ringlets falling upon snow.
Her airy garments' easy flow,
And, wavering round her taper neck,
Dark ringlets falling upon snow.
I would not be the gaze of all,
A tale for every mouth to tell,
But oh, where beauty's glances fall
In rapture, I'd be fain to dwell.
A tale for every mouth to tell,
But oh, where beauty's glances fall
In rapture, I'd be fain to dwell.
Oh, I would be, as beauty's guest,
The blossom which she tends and ties,
The oftenest by her finger pressed,
Gazed on the oftenest by her eyes;
The blossom which she tends and ties,
The oftenest by her finger pressed,
Gazed on the oftenest by her eyes;
The arbour where she loves to rest,
The page turned down to read and read,
The sweetest thought within her breast
That gives the poet beauty's meed.
The page turned down to read and read,
The sweetest thought within her breast
That gives the poet beauty's meed.
Go, envy, with thy gay parade,
The worship and the scorn of praise!
Leave me the solitary glade
Where beauty in its pleasure strays.
The worship and the scorn of praise!
Leave me the solitary glade
Where beauty in its pleasure strays.
| The Poems of John Clare | |