 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
THE EXILE
Love is the mainspring of existence. It
Becomes a soul whereby I live to love.
On all I see, that dearest name is writ;
Falsehood is here—but truth has life above,
Where every star that shines exists in love.
Skies vary in their clouds, the seasons vary
From heat to cold, change cannot constant prove;
The south is bright—but smiles can act contrary;
My guide-star gilds the north, and shines with Mary.
Becomes a soul whereby I live to love.
On all I see, that dearest name is writ;
Falsehood is here—but truth has life above,
Where every star that shines exists in love.
Skies vary in their clouds, the seasons vary
From heat to cold, change cannot constant prove;
The south is bright—but smiles can act contrary;
My guide-star gilds the north, and shines with Mary.
My life hath been one love:—no, blot it out;
My life hath been one chain of contradictions,
Madhouses, prisons, whore-shops—never doubt
But that my life hath had some strong convictions
That such was wrong; religion makes restrictions
I would have followed—but life turned a bubble,
And clomb the giant stile of maledictions;
They took me from my wife, and to save trouble
I wed again, and made the error double.
My life hath been one chain of contradictions,
Madhouses, prisons, whore-shops—never doubt
But that my life hath had some strong convictions
That such was wrong; religion makes restrictions
I would have followed—but life turned a bubble,
And clomb the giant stile of maledictions;
They took me from my wife, and to save trouble
I wed again, and made the error double.
Yet absence claims them both, and keeps them too,
And locks me in a shop, in spite of law,
Among a low-lived set and dirty crew:
Here let the Muse oblivion's curtain draw,
And let man think—for God hath often saw
Things here too dirty for the light of day;
For in a madhouse there exists no law.
Now stagnant grows my too refinèd clay;
I envy birds their wings to fly away.
And locks me in a shop, in spite of law,
Among a low-lived set and dirty crew:
Here let the Muse oblivion's curtain draw,
And let man think—for God hath often saw
Things here too dirty for the light of day;
For in a madhouse there exists no law.
Now stagnant grows my too refinèd clay;
I envy birds their wings to fly away.
387
Absence in love is worse than any fate;
Summer is winter's desert, and the spring
Is like a ruined city desolate;
Joy dies and hope retires on feeble wing;
Nature sinks heedless; birds unheeded sing.
'Tis solitude in city's crowds; all move
Like living death, though all to life still cling.
The strongest, bitterest thing that life can prove
Is woman's undisguise of hate and love.
Summer is winter's desert, and the spring
Is like a ruined city desolate;
Joy dies and hope retires on feeble wing;
Nature sinks heedless; birds unheeded sing.
'Tis solitude in city's crowds; all move
Like living death, though all to life still cling.
The strongest, bitterest thing that life can prove
Is woman's undisguise of hate and love.
How beautiful this hill of fern swells on,
So beautiful the chapel peeps between
The hornbeams, with its simple bell; alone
I wander here, hid in a palace green.
Mary is absent, but the forest queen,
Nature, is with me; morning, noon, and gloaming,
I write my poems in these paths unseen;
And when among these brakes and beeches roaming,
I sigh for truth and home and love and woman.
So beautiful the chapel peeps between
The hornbeams, with its simple bell; alone
I wander here, hid in a palace green.
Mary is absent, but the forest queen,
Nature, is with me; morning, noon, and gloaming,
I write my poems in these paths unseen;
And when among these brakes and beeches roaming,
I sigh for truth and home and love and woman.
Here is the chapel yard enclosed with pales,
And oak-trees nearly top its little bell;
Here is the little bridge with guiding rails
That lead me on to many a pleasant dell;
The fern-owl chitters like a startled knell
To nature, yet 'tis sweet at evening still;
A pleasant road curves round the gentle swell,
Where nature seems to have her own sweet will,
Planting her beech and thorn about the sweet fern hill.
And oak-trees nearly top its little bell;
Here is the little bridge with guiding rails
That lead me on to many a pleasant dell;
The fern-owl chitters like a startled knell
To nature, yet 'tis sweet at evening still;
A pleasant road curves round the gentle swell,
Where nature seems to have her own sweet will,
Planting her beech and thorn about the sweet fern hill.
I have had many loves, and seek no more;
These solitudes my last delights shall be.
The leaf-hid forest and the lonely shore
Seem to my mind like beings that are free.
Yet would I had some eye to smile on me,
Some heart where I could make a happy home in,
Sweet Susan that was wont my love to be,
And Bessy of the glen—for I've been roaming
With both at morn and noon and dusky gloaming.
These solitudes my last delights shall be.
The leaf-hid forest and the lonely shore
Seem to my mind like beings that are free.
Yet would I had some eye to smile on me,
Some heart where I could make a happy home in,
Sweet Susan that was wont my love to be,
And Bessy of the glen—for I've been roaming
With both at morn and noon and dusky gloaming.
388
Cares gather round; I snap their chains in two,
And smile in agony and laugh in tears;
Like playing with a deadly serpent who
Stings to the death, there is no room for fears,
Where death would bring me happiness; his shears
Kill cares that hiss to poison many a vein;
The thought to be extinct my fate endears;
Pale death, the grand physician, cures all pain;
The dead rest well who lived for joys in vain.
And smile in agony and laugh in tears;
Like playing with a deadly serpent who
Stings to the death, there is no room for fears,
Where death would bring me happiness; his shears
Kill cares that hiss to poison many a vein;
The thought to be extinct my fate endears;
Pale death, the grand physician, cures all pain;
The dead rest well who lived for joys in vain.
This twilight seems a veil of gauze and mist;
Trees seem dark hills between the earth and sky;
Winds sob awake, and then a gusty hist
Fans through the wheat, like serpents gliding by.
I love to stretch my length 'tween earth and sky,
And see the inky foliage o'er me wave.
Though shades are still my prison where I lie,
Long use grows nature, which I easy brave,
And think how sweet cares rest within the grave.
Trees seem dark hills between the earth and sky;
Winds sob awake, and then a gusty hist
Fans through the wheat, like serpents gliding by.
I love to stretch my length 'tween earth and sky,
And see the inky foliage o'er me wave.
Though shades are still my prison where I lie,
Long use grows nature, which I easy brave,
And think how sweet cares rest within the grave.
Remind me not of other years, nor tell
My broken hopes of joys they are to meet,
While thy own falsehood rings the loudest knell
To one fond heart that aches, too cold to beat.
Mary, how oft with fondness I repeat
That name alone to give my troubles rest;
The very sound, though bitter, seemeth sweet;
In my love's home and thy own faithless breast,
Truth's bonds are broke and every nerve distressed.
My broken hopes of joys they are to meet,
While thy own falsehood rings the loudest knell
To one fond heart that aches, too cold to beat.
Mary, how oft with fondness I repeat
That name alone to give my troubles rest;
The very sound, though bitter, seemeth sweet;
In my love's home and thy own faithless breast,
Truth's bonds are broke and every nerve distressed.
Life is to me a dream that never wakes;
Night finds me on this lengthening road alone;
Love is to me a thought that ever aches,
A frost-bound thought that freezes life to stone.
Mary, in truth and nature still my own,
That warms the winter of my aching breast,
Thy name is joy, nor will I life bemoan;
Midnight, when sleep takes charge of nature's rest,
Finds me awake and friendless—not distressed.
Night finds me on this lengthening road alone;
Love is to me a thought that ever aches,
A frost-bound thought that freezes life to stone.
Mary, in truth and nature still my own,
That warms the winter of my aching breast,
Thy name is joy, nor will I life bemoan;
Midnight, when sleep takes charge of nature's rest,
Finds me awake and friendless—not distressed.
389
Friend of the friendless, from a host of snares,
From lying varlets and from friendly foes,
I sought thy quiet truth to ease my cares,
And on the blight of reason found repose.
But when the strife of nature ceased her throes,
And other hearts would beat for my return,
I trusted fate to ease my world of woes,
Seeking love's harbour where I now sojourn;
But hell is heaven, could I cease to mourn
From lying varlets and from friendly foes,
I sought thy quiet truth to ease my cares,
And on the blight of reason found repose.
But when the strife of nature ceased her throes,
And other hearts would beat for my return,
I trusted fate to ease my world of woes,
Seeking love's harbour where I now sojourn;
But hell is heaven, could I cease to mourn
For her, for one whose very name is yet
My hell or heaven, and will ever be.
Falsehood is doubt—but I can ne'er forget
Oaths virtuous falsehood volunteered to me,
To make my soul new bonds, which God made free.
God's gift is love, and do I wrong the giver
To plead affections wrong from God's decree?
No, when farewell upon my lips did quiver
And all seemed lost, I loved her more than ever.
My hell or heaven, and will ever be.
Falsehood is doubt—but I can ne'er forget
Oaths virtuous falsehood volunteered to me,
To make my soul new bonds, which God made free.
God's gift is love, and do I wrong the giver
To plead affections wrong from God's decree?
No, when farewell upon my lips did quiver
And all seemed lost, I loved her more than ever.
Now come the balm and breezes of the spring;
Not with the pleasures of my early days,
When nature seemed one endless song to sing
Of joyous melody and happy praise.
Ah, would they come agen! But life betrays
Quicksands, and gulfs, and storms that howl and sting
All quiet into madness and delays.
Care hides the sunshine with its raven wing,
And hell glooms sadness o'er the songs of spring.
Not with the pleasures of my early days,
When nature seemed one endless song to sing
Of joyous melody and happy praise.
Ah, would they come agen! But life betrays
Quicksands, and gulfs, and storms that howl and sting
All quiet into madness and delays.
Care hides the sunshine with its raven wing,
And hell glooms sadness o'er the songs of spring.
My mind is dark and fathomless, and wears
The hues of hopeless agony and hell;
No plummet ever sounds the soul's affairs;
There death eternal never sounds the knell;
There love imprisoned sighs the long farewell,
And still may sigh, in thoughts no heart hath penned,
Alone, in loneliness where sorrows dwell;
And hopeless hope hopes on and meets no end,
Wastes without springs and homes without a friend.
The hues of hopeless agony and hell;
No plummet ever sounds the soul's affairs;
There death eternal never sounds the knell;
There love imprisoned sighs the long farewell,
And still may sigh, in thoughts no heart hath penned,
Alone, in loneliness where sorrows dwell;
And hopeless hope hopes on and meets no end,
Wastes without springs and homes without a friend.
390
Yet love lives on in every kind of weather,
In heats and colds, in sunshine and in gloom;
Winter may blight and stormy clouds may gather,
Nature invigorates and love will bloom;
It fears no sorrow in a life to come,
But lives within itself from year to year,
As doth the wild flower in its own perfume;
As in the Lapland snows spring's blooms appear,
So true love blooms and blossoms everywhere.
In heats and colds, in sunshine and in gloom;
Winter may blight and stormy clouds may gather,
Nature invigorates and love will bloom;
It fears no sorrow in a life to come,
But lives within itself from year to year,
As doth the wild flower in its own perfume;
As in the Lapland snows spring's blooms appear,
So true love blooms and blossoms everywhere.
The dew falls on the weed and on the flower,
The rose and thistle bathe their heads in dew;
The lowliest heart may have its prospering hour,
The saddest bosom meets its wishes true;
E'en I may love and happiness renew,
Though not the sweets of my first early days,
When one sweet face was all the loves I knew,
And my soul trembled on her eyes to gaze,
Whose very censure seemed intended praise.
The rose and thistle bathe their heads in dew;
The lowliest heart may have its prospering hour,
The saddest bosom meets its wishes true;
E'en I may love and happiness renew,
Though not the sweets of my first early days,
When one sweet face was all the loves I knew,
And my soul trembled on her eyes to gaze,
Whose very censure seemed intended praise.
Flow on, my verse, though barren thou mayst be
Of thought; yet sing, and let thy fancies roll;
In early days thou swept a mighty sea,
All calm in troublous deeps, and spurned control.
Thou fire and iceberg to an aching soul,
And still an angel in my gloomy way,
Far better opiate than the draining bowl,
Still sing, my muse, to drive care's fiends away,
Nor heed what loitering listener hears the lay.
Of thought; yet sing, and let thy fancies roll;
In early days thou swept a mighty sea,
All calm in troublous deeps, and spurned control.
Thou fire and iceberg to an aching soul,
And still an angel in my gloomy way,
Far better opiate than the draining bowl,
Still sing, my muse, to drive care's fiends away,
Nor heed what loitering listener hears the lay.
Her looks were like the spring, her very voice
Was spring's own music, more than song to me;
Choice of my boyhood, nay, my soul's first choice,
From her sweet thraldom I am never free.
Yet here my prison is a spring to me,
Past memories bloom like flowers where'er I rove,
My very bondage, though in snares, is free;
I love to stretch me in this shady grove
And muse upon the memories of love.
Was spring's own music, more than song to me;
Choice of my boyhood, nay, my soul's first choice,
From her sweet thraldom I am never free.
Yet here my prison is a spring to me,
Past memories bloom like flowers where'er I rove,
My very bondage, though in snares, is free;
I love to stretch me in this shady grove
And muse upon the memories of love.
391
Hail, solitude, still peace, and lonely good,
Thou spirit of all joys to be alone,
My best of friends, these glades and this green wood,
Where nature is herself, and loves her own;
The heart's hid anguish, here I make it known,
And tell my troubles to the gentle wind;
Friends' cold neglects have froze my heart to stone,
And wrecked the voyage of a quiet mind,
With wives and friends and every hope disjoined;
Thou spirit of all joys to be alone,
My best of friends, these glades and this green wood,
Where nature is herself, and loves her own;
The heart's hid anguish, here I make it known,
And tell my troubles to the gentle wind;
Friends' cold neglects have froze my heart to stone,
And wrecked the voyage of a quiet mind,
With wives and friends and every hope disjoined;
Wrecked of all hopes save one, to be alone,
Where solitude becomes my wedded mate;
Sweet forest! with rich beauties overgrown,
Where solitude is queen and reigns in state;
Hid in green trees I hear the clapping gate
And voices calling to the rambling cows.
I laugh at love and all its idle fate;
The present hour is all my lot allows;
An age of sorrow springs from lovers' vows.
Where solitude becomes my wedded mate;
Sweet forest! with rich beauties overgrown,
Where solitude is queen and reigns in state;
Hid in green trees I hear the clapping gate
And voices calling to the rambling cows.
I laugh at love and all its idle fate;
The present hour is all my lot allows;
An age of sorrow springs from lovers' vows.
Sweet is the song of birds, for that restores
The soul to harmony, the mind to love;
'Tis nature's song of freedom out of doors,
Forests beneath, free winds and clouds above;
The thrush and nightingale and timid dove
Breathe music round me where the gipsies dwell;
Pierced hearts, left burning in the doubts of love,
Are desolate where crowds and cities dwell;
The splendid palace seems the gates of hell.
The soul to harmony, the mind to love;
'Tis nature's song of freedom out of doors,
Forests beneath, free winds and clouds above;
The thrush and nightingale and timid dove
Breathe music round me where the gipsies dwell;
Pierced hearts, left burning in the doubts of love,
Are desolate where crowds and cities dwell;
The splendid palace seems the gates of hell.
| The Poems of John Clare | |