The Poems of John Clare Edited with an Introduction by J. W. Tibble |
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THE RETURN: NORTHBOROUGH, 1841 |
 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
THE RETURN: NORTHBOROUGH, 1841
Now melancholy autumn comes anew
With showery clouds and fields of wheat tanned brown;
Along the meadow banks I peace pursue
And see the wild flowers gleaming up and down,
Like sun and light; the ragwort's golden crown
Mirrors like sunshine when sunbeams retire,
And silver yarrow: there's the little town,
And o'er the meadows gleams that slender spire,
Reminding me of one, and waking fond desire.
With showery clouds and fields of wheat tanned brown;
Along the meadow banks I peace pursue
And see the wild flowers gleaming up and down,
Like sun and light; the ragwort's golden crown
Mirrors like sunshine when sunbeams retire,
And silver yarrow: there's the little town,
And o'er the meadows gleams that slender spire,
Reminding me of one, and waking fond desire.
I love thee, nature, in my inmost heart;
Go where I will, thy truth seems from above;
Go where I will, thy landscape forms a part
Of heaven: e'en these fens, where wood nor grove
Are seen, their very nakedness I love,
For one dwells nigh that secret hopes prefer
Above the race of women; like the dove,
I mourn her absence; fate, that would deter
My hate for all things, strengthens love for her.
Go where I will, thy truth seems from above;
Go where I will, thy landscape forms a part
Of heaven: e'en these fens, where wood nor grove
Are seen, their very nakedness I love,
For one dwells nigh that secret hopes prefer
Above the race of women; like the dove,
I mourn her absence; fate, that would deter
My hate for all things, strengthens love for her.
394
That form from boyhood loved and still loved on,
That voice, that look, that face of one delight,
Love's register for years, months, weeks, time past and gone,
Her looks were ne'er forgot nor out of sight.
Mary, the muse of every song I write,
Thy cherished memory never leaves my own;
Though care's chill winter doth my manhood blight,
And freeze, like Niobe, my thoughts to stone,
Our lives are two, our end and aim is one.
That voice, that look, that face of one delight,
Love's register for years, months, weeks, time past and gone,
Her looks were ne'er forgot nor out of sight.
Mary, the muse of every song I write,
Thy cherished memory never leaves my own;
Though care's chill winter doth my manhood blight,
And freeze, like Niobe, my thoughts to stone,
Our lives are two, our end and aim is one.
'Tis pleasant, now day's hours begin to pass
To dewy eve, to walk down narrow close,
And feel one's feet among refreshing grass,
And hear the insects in their homes discourse,
And startled blackbird fly, from covert close
Of whitethorn hedge, with wild fear-fluttering wings,
And see the spire and hear the clock toll hoarse,
And whisper names and think o'er many things
That love hurds up in truth's imaginings.
To dewy eve, to walk down narrow close,
And feel one's feet among refreshing grass,
And hear the insects in their homes discourse,
And startled blackbird fly, from covert close
Of whitethorn hedge, with wild fear-fluttering wings,
And see the spire and hear the clock toll hoarse,
And whisper names and think o'er many things
That love hurds up in truth's imaginings.
Fame blazed upon me like a comet's glare;
Fame waned and left me like a fallen star,
Because I told the evil what they were
And truth and falsehood never wished to mar;
My life hath been a wreck—and I've gone far
For peace and truth and hope, for home and rest;
Like Eden's gates, fate throws a constant bar;
Thought may o'ertake the sunset in the west,
Man meet no home within a woman's breast.
Fame waned and left me like a fallen star,
Because I told the evil what they were
And truth and falsehood never wished to mar;
My life hath been a wreck—and I've gone far
For peace and truth and hope, for home and rest;
Like Eden's gates, fate throws a constant bar;
Thought may o'ertake the sunset in the west,
Man meet no home within a woman's breast.
Though they are blazoned in the poet's song
And all the comforts which our lives contain,
I read and sought such joys my whole life long,
And found the best of poets sung in vain.
But still I read and sighed and sued again,
And lost no purpose where I had the will;
I almost worshipped; when my toils grew vain,
Finding no antidote my pains to kill,
I sigh, a poet and a lover still.
And all the comforts which our lives contain,
I read and sought such joys my whole life long,
And found the best of poets sung in vain.
But still I read and sighed and sued again,
And lost no purpose where I had the will;
I almost worshipped; when my toils grew vain,
Finding no antidote my pains to kill,
I sigh, a poet and a lover still.
395
Dull must that being live who sees unmoved
The scenes and objects that his childhood knew;
The schoolyard and the maid he early loved,
The sunny wall where long the old elms grew,
The grass that e'en till noon retains the dew
Beneath the walnut shade—I see them still,
Though not such fancies do I now pursue;
Yet still the picture turns my bosom chill,
And leaves a void nor love nor hope may fill.
The scenes and objects that his childhood knew;
The schoolyard and the maid he early loved,
The sunny wall where long the old elms grew,
The grass that e'en till noon retains the dew
Beneath the walnut shade—I see them still,
Though not such fancies do I now pursue;
Yet still the picture turns my bosom chill,
And leaves a void nor love nor hope may fill.
After long absence how the mind recalls
Pleasing associations of the past:
Haunts of his youth, thorn hedges and old walls,
And hollow trees that sheltered from the blast,
And all that map of boyhood, overcast
With glooms and wrongs and sorrows not his own,
That o'er his brow like the scathed lightning past,
That turned his spring to winter, and alone
Wrecked name and fame and all, to solitude unknown.
Pleasing associations of the past:
Haunts of his youth, thorn hedges and old walls,
And hollow trees that sheltered from the blast,
And all that map of boyhood, overcast
With glooms and wrongs and sorrows not his own,
That o'er his brow like the scathed lightning past,
That turned his spring to winter, and alone
Wrecked name and fame and all, to solitude unknown.
So on he lives in glooms and living death,
A shade like night, forgetting and forgot;
Insects, that kindle in the spring's young breath,
Take hold of life and share a brighter lot
Than he, the tenant of the hall and cot;
The princely palace too hath been his home,
And gipsy's camp when friends would know him not;
In midst of wealth, a beggar still to roam,
Parted from one whose heart was once his home.
A shade like night, forgetting and forgot;
Insects, that kindle in the spring's young breath,
Take hold of life and share a brighter lot
Than he, the tenant of the hall and cot;
The princely palace too hath been his home,
And gipsy's camp when friends would know him not;
In midst of wealth, a beggar still to roam,
Parted from one whose heart was once his home.
And yet not parted; still love's hope illumes,
And like the rainbow, brightest in the storm,
It looks for joy beyond the wreck of tombs,
And in life's winter keeps love's embers warm.
The ocean's roughest tempest meets a calm,
Care's thickest cloud shall break in sunny joy;
O'er the parched waste, showers yet shall fall like balm,
And she, the soul of life, for whom I sigh,
Like flowers shall cheer me when the storm is by.
And like the rainbow, brightest in the storm,
It looks for joy beyond the wreck of tombs,
And in life's winter keeps love's embers warm.
The ocean's roughest tempest meets a calm,
Care's thickest cloud shall break in sunny joy;
O'er the parched waste, showers yet shall fall like balm,
And she, the soul of life, for whom I sigh,
Like flowers shall cheer me when the storm is by.
| The Poems of John Clare | |