Poems

by John Clare

With thee the raptures of life’s early day
Appear, and all that pleased me when a boy.
Though pains and cares have torn the best away,
And winter creeps between us to destroy,
Do thou commend, the recompence is joy:
The tempest of the heart shall soon be calm.
Though sterner Truth against my dreams rebel,
Hope feels success; and all my spirits warm,
To strike with happier mood thy simple shell,
And seize thy mantle’s hem—O! say not fare-thee-well.

Still, sweet Enchantress! youth’s strong feelings move,
That from thy presence their existence took:—
The innocent idolatry and love,
Paying thee worship in each secret nook,
That fancied friends in tree, and flower, and brook,
Shaped clouds to angels and beheld them smile,
And heard commending tongues in ev’ry wind.
Life’s grosser fancies did these dreams defile,
Yet not entirely root them from the mind;
I think I hear them still, and often look behind.

Aye, I have heard thee in the summer wind,
As if commending what I sung to thee;
Aye, I have seen thee on a cloud reclined,
Kindling my fancies into poesy;
I saw thee smile, and took the praise to me.
In beauties, past all beauty, thou wert drest;
I thought the very clouds around thee knelt:
I saw the sun to linger in the west,
Paying thee worship; and as eve did melt
In dews, they seemed thy tears for sorrows I had felt.

Sweeter than flowers on beauty’s bosom hung,
Sweeter than dreams of happiness above,
Sweeter than themes by lips of beauty sung,
Are the young fancies of a poet’s love.
When round his thoughts thy trancing visions move.
In floating melody no notes may sound,
The world is all forgot and past his care,
While on thy harp thy fingers lightly bound,
As winning him its melody to share;
And heaven itself, with him, where is it then but there?

E’en now my heart leaps out from grief, and all
The gloom thrown round by Care’s o’ershading wing;
E’en now those sunny visions to recall,
Like to a bird I quit dull earth and sing:
Life’s tempest swoon to calms on every string.
Ah! sweet Enchantress, if I do but dream,
If earthly visions have been only mine,
My weakness in thy service woos esteem,
And proves my truth as almost worthy thine:
Surely true worship makes the meanest theme divine.

And still, warm courage, calming many a fear,
Heartens my hand once more thy harp to try
To join the anthem of the minstrel year:
For summer’s music in thy praise is high;
The very winds about thy mantle sigh
Love-melodies; thy minstrel bards to be,
Insects and birds, exerting all their skill,
Float in continued song for mastery,
While in thy haunts loud leaps the little rill,
To kiss thy mantle’s hem; and how can I be still?

There still I see thee fold thy mantle grey,
To trace the dewy lawn at morn and night;
And there I see thee, in the sunny day,
Withdraw thy veil and shine confest in light;
Burning my fancies with a wild delight,
To win a portion of thy blushing fame.
Though haughty Fancy treat thy power as small,
And Fashion thy simplicity disclaim,
Should but a portion of thy mantle fall
O’er him who woos thy love, ’tis recompense for all.

Not with the mighty to thy shrine I come,
In anxious sighs, or self applauding mirth,
On Mount Parnassus as thine heir to roam:
I dare not credit that immortal birth;
But mingling with the lesser ones on earth—
Like as the little lark from off its nest,
Beside the mossy hill awakes in glee,
To seek the morning’s throne a merry guest—
So do I seek thy shrine, if that may be,
To win by new attempts another smile from thee.

If without thee ’neath storms, and clouds, and wind,
I’ve roam’d the wood, and field, and meadow lea;
And found no flowers but what the vulgar find,
Nor met one breath of living poesy,
Among such charms where inspirations be;
The fault is mine—and I must bear the lot
Of missing praise to merit thy disdain.
To feel each idle plea though urged, forgot;
I can but sigh—though foolish to complain
O’er hopes so fair begun, to find them end so vain.

Then will it prove presumption thus to dare
To add fresh failings to each faulty song,
Urging thy blessings on an idle prayer,
To sanction silly themes: it will be wrong
For one so lowly to be heard so long.
Yet, sweet Enchantress, yet a little while
Forego impatience, and from frowns refrain;
The strong are ne’er debarr’d thy cheering smile,
Why should the weak, who need them most, complain
Alone, in solitude, soliciting in vain?