 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
303
MYSTERY
There is a vague oblivion, dark and vastAs is the future, fruitless as the past
To fathom and unravel to the end,
Of great adventure's darings. Books are penned
Mere guesses into truth, and at the last
Mere guesses only, going where they came
To that exhaustless blank that swallows all
With shadows and with darkness overcast.
There mystery lives indefinite and grand,
Wed to a million fames: Perouse and all
His gallant navigators left the land
For earth's remotest depths, and where they fell
Discovery's courage ne'er can understand,
Nor rumour's thousand trumpets ever tell.
| The Poems of John Clare | |