Life and Remains of John Clare Part 23

THE LOST ONE

I seek her in the shady grove, And by the silent stream; I seek her where my fancies rove, In many a happy dream; I seek her where I find her not, In Spring and Summer weather: My thoughts paint many a happy spot, But we ne'er meet together.

The trees and bushes speak my choice, And in the Summer shower I often hear her pleasant voice, In many a silent hour: I see her in the Summer brook, In blossoms sweet and fair; In every pleasant place I look My fancy paints her there.

The wind blows through the forest trees, And cheers the pleasant day; There her sweet voice is sure to be To lull my cares away.

The very hedges find a voice, So does the gurgling rill; But still the object of my choice Is lost and absent still.

THE TELL-TALE FLOWERS

And has the Spring's all glorious eye No lesson to the mind?

The birds that cleave the golden sky-- Things to the earth resigned-- Wild flowers that dance to every wind-- Do they no memory leave behind?

Aye, flowers! The very name of flowers, That bloom in wood and glen, Brings Spring to me in Winter's hours, And childhood's dreams again.

The primrose on the woodland lea Was more than gold and lands to me.

The violets by the woodland side Are thick as they could thrive; I've talked to them with childish pride As things that were alive: I find them now in my distress-- They seem as sweet, yet valueless.

The cowslips on the meadow lea, How have I run for them!

I looked with wild and childish glee Upon each golden gem: And when they bowed their heads so shy I laughed, and thought they danced for joy.

And when a man, in early years, How sweet they used to come, And give me tales of smiles and tears, And thoughts more dear than home: Secrets which words would then reprove-- They told the names of early love.

The primrose turned a babbling flower Within its sweet recess: I blushed to see its secret bower, And turned her name to bless.

The violets said the eyes were blue: I loved, and did they tell me true?

The cowslips, blooming everywhere, My heart's own thoughts could steal: I nip't them that they should not hear: They smiled, and would reveal; And o'er each meadow, right or wrong, They sing the name I've worshipped long.

The brook that mirrored clear the sky-- Full well I know the spot; The mouse-ear looked with bright blue eye, And said "Forget-me-not."

And from the brook I turned away, But heard it many an after day.

The king-cup on its slender stalk, Within the pasture dell, Would picture there a pleasant walk With one I loved so well.

It said "How sweet at eventide 'T would be, with true love at thy side."

And on the pasture's woody knoll I saw the wild bluebell, On Sundays where I used to stroll With her I loved so well: She culled the flowers the year before; These bowed, and told the story o'er.

And every flower that had a name Would tell me who was fair; But those without, as strangers, came And blossomed silent there: I stood to hear, but all alone: They bloomed and kept their thoughts unknown.

But seasons now have nought to say, The flowers no news to bring: Alone I live from day to day-- Flowers deck the bier of Spring; And birds upon the bush or tree All sing a different tale to me.

THE SKYLARK

Although I'm in prison Thy song is uprisen, Thou'rt singing away to the feathery cloud, In the blueness of morn, Over fields of green corn, With a song sweet and trilling, and rural and loud.

When the day is serenest, When the corn is the greenest, Thy bosom mounts up and floats in the light, And sings in the sun, Like a vision begun Of pleasure, of love, and of lonely delight.

The daisies they whiten Plains the sunbeams now brighten, And warm thy snug nest where thy russet eggs lie, From whence thou'rt now springing, And the air is now ringing, To show that the minstrel of Spring is on high.

The cornflower is blooming, The cowslip is coming, And many new buds on the silken gra.s.s lie: On the earth's shelt'ring breast Thou hast left thy brown nest, And art towering above it, a speck in the sky.

Thou'rt the herald of sunshine, And the soft dewy moonshine Gilds sweetly the sleep of thy brown speckled breast: Thou'rt the bard of the Spring, On thy brown russet wing, And of each gra.s.sy close thou'rt the poet and guest.

There's the violet confiding, In the mossy wood riding, And primrose beneath the old thorn in the glen, And the daisies that bed In the sheltered homestead-- Old friends with old faces, I see them again.

And thou, feathered poet, I see thee, and know it-- Thou'rt one of the minstrels that cheered me last Spring: With Nature thou'rt blest, And green gra.s.s round thy nest Will keep thee still happy to mount up and sing.

POETS LOVE NATURE--A FRAGMENT

Poets love Nature, and themselves are love.

Though scorn of fools, and mock of idle pride.

The vile in nature worthless deeds approve, They court the vile and spurn all good beside.

Poets love Nature; like the calm of Heaven, Like Heaven's own love, her gifts spread far and wide: In all her works there are no signs of leaven * * * *

Her flowers * * * *

They are her very Scriptures upon earth, And teach us simple mirth where'er we go.

Even in prison they can solace me, For where they bloom G.o.d is, and I am free.

HOME YEARNINGS

O for that sweet, untroubled rest That poets oft have sung!-- The babe upon its mother's breast, The bird upon its young, The heart asleep without a pain-- When shall I know that sleep again?

When shall I be as I have been Upon my mother's breast-- Sweet Nature's garb of verdant green To woo to perfect rest-- Love in the meadow, field, and glen, And in my native wilds again?

The sheep within the fallow field, The herd upon the green, The larks that in the thistle shield, And pipe from morn to e'en-- O for the pasture, fields, and fen!

When shall I see such rest again?

I love the weeds along the fen, More sweet than garden flowers, For freedom haunts the humble glen That blest my happiest hours.

Here prison injures health and me: I love sweet freedom and the free.

The crows upon the swelling hills, The cows upon the lea, Sheep feeding by the pasture rills, Are ever dear to me, Because sweet freedom is their mate, While I am lone and desolate.

I loved the winds when I was young, When life was dear to me; I loved the song which Nature sung, Endearing liberty; I loved the wood, the vale, the stream, For there my boyhood used to dream.

There even toil itself was play; 'T was pleasure e'en to weep; 'T was joy to think of dreams by day, The beautiful of sleep.

When shall I see the wood and plain, And dream those happy dreams again?