Early Sorrows.

Full many a sharp, sad, unexpected thorn
Finds room to wound Life's lacerated flower,
Which subtle fate, to every mortal born,
Guides unprevented in an early hour.
Ah, cruel thorns, too soon I felt your power;
Your throbbing shoots of never-ceasing pain
Hope's blossoms in their bud did long devour,
And left continued my sad eyes to strain
On wilder'd spots chok'd up with Sorrow's weeds,
Alas, that's shaken but too many seeds
To leave me room for Hopes to bud again.
But Fate may torture, while it is decreed,
Where all my hope's unblighted blooms remain,
That Heaven's recompense shall this succeed.

John Clare

John Clare was an English poet known for his celebrations of the English countryside and lamentation of its disruption. Born in Helpston, Northamptonshire, Clare was initially a farm laborer. His poetry is characterized by its natural imagery and rustic language. Despite periods of fame during his period, Clare spent the later part of his life in an asylum due to mental health issues. His works gained greater recognition posthumously. Clare's major poem collections include "Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery" and "The Shepherd's Calendar."

John Clare

Song. "Mary, The Day Of Love's Pleasures Has Been"

John Clare, Simple Poetry

To Miss C.....

John Clare, Simple Poetry

The Evening Hours.

John Clare, Simple Poetry

Spring

John Clare, Simple Poetry

English

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The Old Man's Lament

    Youth has no fear of ill, by no cloudy days annoyed,
    But the old man's all hath fled, and his hopes have met their doom:
    The bud hath burst to flower, and the flower been long destroyed,
    The root also is withered; I no more can look for bloom.
    So I have said my say, and I have had my day,
    And sorrow, like a young storm, creeps dark upon my brow;
    Hopes, like to summer clouds, have all blown far away,
    And the world's sunny side is turned over with me now,
    And I am left a lame bird upon a withered bough.

    I look upon the past: 't is as black as winter days,
    But the worst is not yet over; there are blacker, days to come.
    O, I would I had but known of the wide world's many ways,
    But youth is ever blind, so I e'en must meet my do...

John Clare

The Widower's Lament.

Age yellows my leaf with a daily decline,
And nature turns sick with decay;
Short is the thread on life's spool that is mine,
And few are my wishes to stay:
The bud, that has seen but the sun of an hour,
When storms overtake it may sigh;
But fruit, that has weather'd life's sunshine and shower,
Drops easy and gladly to die.

The prop of my age, and the balm of my pain,
With the length of life's years has declin'd;
And, like the last sheep of the flock on the plain,
She leaves me uneasy behind:
I think of the days when our hearts they were one,
And she of my youth was the pride;
I look for the prop of my age, but it's gone,
And I long to drop down by her side.

John Clare

Hope.

This world has suns, but they are overcast;
This world has sweets, but they're of ling'ring bloom;
Life still expects, and empty falls at last;
Warm Hope on tiptoe drops into the tomb.
Life's journey's rough--Hope seeks a smoother way,
And dwells on fancies which to-morrow see,--
To-morrow comes, true copy of to-day,
And empty shadow of what is to be;
Yet cheated Hope on future still depends,
And ends but only when our being ends.
I long have hoped, and still shall hope the best
Till heedless weeds are scrambling over me,
And hopes and ashes both together rest
At journey's end, with them that cease to be.

John Clare

The Last Of April.

Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn
Her death-bed steeps in tears:--to hail the May
New blooming blossoms 'neath the sun are born,
And all poor April's charms are swept away.
The early primrose, peeping once so gay,
Is now chok'd up with many a mounting weed,
And the poor violet we once admir'd
Creeps in the grass unsought for--flowers succeed,
Gaudy and new, and more to be desired,
And of the old the school-boy seemeth tired.
So with us all, poor April, as with thee!
Each hath his day;--the future brings my fears:
Friends may grow weary, new flowers rising be,
And my last end, like thine, be steep'd in tears.

John Clare

Autumn

Syren of sullen moods and fading hues,
Yet haply not incapable of joy,
Sweet Autumn! I thee hail
With welcome all unfeigned;

And oft as morning from her lattice peeps
To beckon up the sun, I seek with thee
To drink the dewy breath
Of fields left fragrant then,

In solitudes, where no frequented paths
But what thine own foot makes betray thine home,
Stealing obtrusive there
To meditate thy end;

By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks,
With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge,
Which woo the winds to play,
And with them dance for joy;

And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods,
Where waterlilies spread their oily leaves,
On which, as wont, the fly
Oft battens in the sun;

Where leans the mossy willow half way...

John Clare

Autumn

Syren of sullen moods and fading hues,
Yet haply not incapable of joy,
Sweet Autumn! I thee hail
With welcome all unfeigned;

And oft as morning from her lattice peeps
To beckon up the sun, I seek with thee
To drink the dewy breath
Of fields left fragrant then,

In solitudes, where no frequented paths
But what thy own foot makes betray thy home,
Stealing obtrusive there
To meditate thy end:

By overshadowed ponds, in woody nooks,
With ramping sallows lined, and crowding sedge,
Which woo the winds to play,
And with them dance for joy;

And meadow pools, torn wide by lawless floods,
Where water-lilies spread their oily leaves,
On which, as wont, the fly
Oft battens in the sun;

Where leans the mossy willow half way oe...

John Clare