Quote

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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John Clare
Age: 70 †
Born: 1793
Born: July 13
Died: 1864
Died: May 20
Farmworker
Naturalist
Poet
Writer
Northamptonshire Peasant Poet
Hope
Cheated
Comes
Morrow
True
Copy
Ends
Copies
Stills
Shadow
Still
Empty
Depends
Future

More quotes by John Clare

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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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Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rude / And flew to the silence of sweet solitude.
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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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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!
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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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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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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 gennerally understood tho I do not use that awkward squad of pointings called commas colons semicolons etc.
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The present is the funeral of the past, And man the living sepulchre of life.
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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.
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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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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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Throw not my words away, as many doThey're gold in value, though they're cheap to you.
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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.
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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I long for scenes where man has never trod... There to abide with my Creator, God.
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Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
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And what is Life? - An hour-glass on the run
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I am the self-consumer of my woes.
John Clare