Quote

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

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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
May
Sun
Blooming
Tears
Charms
Poor
Blossoms
Lasts
Swept
Last
Hail
Wanes
Born
April
Neath
Death
Charm
Dewy
Away
Bed
Morn

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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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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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I am: yet what I am none cares or knows, My friends forsake me like a memory lost I am the self-consumer of my woes, They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost And yet I am, and live with shadows tost.
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If life had a second edition, how I would correct the proofs.
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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.
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Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
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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.
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I long for scenes where man has never trod... There to abide with my Creator, God.
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Throw not my words away, as many doThey're gold in value, though they're cheap to you.
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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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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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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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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.
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The present is the funeral of the past, And man the living sepulchre of life.
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While snow the window-panes bedim, The fire curls up a sunny charm, Where, creaming o'er the pitcher's rim, The flowering ale is set to warm Mirth, full of joy as summer bees, Sits there, its pleasures to impart, And children, 'tween their parent's knees, Sing scraps of carols o'er by heart.
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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.
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And what is Life? - An hour-glass on the run
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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.
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I am the self-consumer of my woes.
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