 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
352
TO THE COWSLIP
Once more, thou flower of childish fame,
Thou meet'st the April wind;
The selfsame flower, the very same
As those I used to find.
Thy peeps, tipt round with ruddy streak,
Again attract mine eye,
As they were those I used to seek
Full twenty summers by.
Thou meet'st the April wind;
The selfsame flower, the very same
As those I used to find.
Thy peeps, tipt round with ruddy streak,
Again attract mine eye,
As they were those I used to seek
Full twenty summers by.
But I'm no more akin to thee,
A partner of the spring;
For time has had a hand with me,
And left an alter'd thing:
A thing that's lost thy golden hours,
And all I witness'd then,
Mix'd in a desert, far from flowers,
Among the ways of men.
A partner of the spring;
For time has had a hand with me,
And left an alter'd thing:
A thing that's lost thy golden hours,
And all I witness'd then,
Mix'd in a desert, far from flowers,
Among the ways of men.
Thy blooming pleasures, smiling, gay,
The seasons still renew;
But mine were doom'd a stinted stay,
Ah, they were short and few!
The every hour that hurried by,
To eke the passing day,
Lent restless pleasures wings to fly
Till all were flown away.
The seasons still renew;
But mine were doom'd a stinted stay,
Ah, they were short and few!
The every hour that hurried by,
To eke the passing day,
Lent restless pleasures wings to fly
Till all were flown away.
Blest flower! with spring thy joy's begun,
And no false hopes are thine;
One constant cheer of shower and sun
Makes all thy stay divine.
But my May-morning quickly fled,
And dull its noon came on—
And happiness is past and dead
Ere half that noon is gone.
And no false hopes are thine;
One constant cheer of shower and sun
Makes all thy stay divine.
But my May-morning quickly fled,
And dull its noon came on—
And happiness is past and dead
Ere half that noon is gone.
Ah! smile and bloom, thou lovely thing!
Though May's sweet days are few,
Still coming years thy flowers shall bring,
And bid them bloom anew.
Man's Life, that bears no kin to them,
Past pleasures well may mourn:
No bud clings to its withering stem—
No hope for Spring's return.
Though May's sweet days are few,
353
And bid them bloom anew.
Man's Life, that bears no kin to them,
Past pleasures well may mourn:
No bud clings to its withering stem—
No hope for Spring's return.
| The Poems of John Clare | |