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The present is the funeral of the past, And man the living sepulchre of life.

John Clare

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John Clare
Age: 70 †
Born: 1793
Born: July 13
Died: 1864
Died: May 20
Farmworker
Naturalist
Poet
Writer
Northamptonshire Peasant Poet
Life
Sepulchre
Funeral
Present
Living
Past
Men

More quotes by John Clare

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I never saw so sweet a face. As that I stood before. My heart has left it dwelling place ... and can return no more.
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When trouble haunts me, need I sigh?No, rather smile away despair
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I lost the love of heaven above I spurned the lust of earth below I felt the sweets of fancied love And hell itself my only foe.
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For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love, Where nothing can hear or intrude It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove, In beautiful green solitude.
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Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rude / And flew to the silence of sweet solitude.
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And what is Life? - An hour-glass on the run
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Still, I have been no one's enemy but my own. My easy nature, either in drinking or anything else, was always ready to submit to persuasions of profligate companions, who often led me into snares.
John Clare
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If life had a second edition, how I would correct the proofs.
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I long for scenes where man has never trod... There to abide with my Creator, God.
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I am gennerally understood tho I do not use that awkward squad of pointings called commas colons semicolons etc.
John Clare
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I hid my love when young till I Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly I hid my life to my despite Till I could not bear to look at light: I dare not gaze upon her face But left her memory in each place Where'er I saw a wild flower lie I kissed and bade my love good-bye.
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Loud is the summer's busy song The smallest breeze can find a tongue, While insects of each tiny size Grow teasing with their melodies, Till noon burns with its blistering breath Around, and day lies still as death.
John Clare
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My fears are agitated to an extreme degree and the dread of death involves me in a stupor of chilling indisposition.
John Clare
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I am the self-consumer of my woes.
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Throw not my words away, as many doThey're gold in value, though they're cheap to you.
John Clare
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The wild swan hurries hight and noises loud With white neck peering to the evening clowd. The weary rooks to distant woods are gone. With lengths of tail the magpie winnows on To neighbouring tree, and leaves the distant crow While small birds nestle in the edge below.
John Clare
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Forgive me if, in friendship’s way, I offer thee a wreath of May.... [N]ourished by the dews of heaven.... So I have Ivy placed between, To prove that worth is ever green. The little blue Forget-me-not... Spring’s messenger in every spot, Smiling on all—Remember me!
John Clare
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Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
John Clare
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To-morrow comes, true copy of to-day,And empty shadow of what is to beYet cheated Hope on future still depends,And ends but only when our being ends.
John Clare
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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.
John Clare