Friday Poetry: John Clare

Hello!

Happy Friday Everyone!

My chosen poem this week is by a favourite of mine.

The Instinct of Hope

Is there another world for this frail dust
To warm with life and be itself again?
Something about me daily speaks there must,
And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?
'Tis nature's prophesy that such will be,
And everything seems struggling to explain
The close sealed volume of its mystery. 
Time wandering onward keeps its usual pace
As seeming anxious of eternity,
To meet that calm and find a resting place. 
E'en the small violet feels a future power
And waits each year renewing blooms to bring,
And surely man is no inferior flower
To die unworthy of a second spring?

John Clare

Happy Reading

Etsy

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Friday Poetry: John Clare

Happy Friday!

My chosen poem this week is by one of my favourites.

First Love

I ne'er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale,
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start -
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter's choice?
Is love's bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love's appeal to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more.

John Clare

Happy Reading

Etsy

If you enjoy reading my blog and would like to make a donation I would be very grateful. Thank you

Friday Poetry: John Clare

Happy Friday!

I have gone for another poem by John Clare this week. This poem celebrates the coming of Spring.

Young Lambs

The spring is coming by a many signs;
The trays are up, the hedges broken down, 
That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines
Like some old antique fragment weathered brown.
And where suns peep, in every sheltered place, 
The little early buttercups unfold
A glittering star or two - till many trace
The edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold. 
And then a little lamb bolts up behind
The hill and wags his tail to meet the yoe,
And then another, sheltered from the wind, 
Lies all his length as dead - and lets me go
Close by and never stirs, but beaking lies,
With legs stretched out as though he could not rise.

John Clare

Happy Reading!

Friday Poetry: John Clare

Good morning,

I hope everyone is enjoying this fine weather we are having, obviously abiding the lockdown rules. Today is the 75th Anniversary of VE DAY so I have chosen a poem that celebrates the English countryside.

This poem is by John Clare (1793-1864) who was an English poet who celebrated the English countryside in his poetry.

On a Lane in Spring

A little lane – the brook runs close beside,

And spangles in the sunshine, while the fish glide swiftly by;

And hedges leafing with the green springtide;

From out their greenery the old birds fly,

And chirp and whistle in the mourning sun;

The pilewort glitters ‘neath the pale blue sky,

The little robin has its nest begun

The grass-green linnets round the bushes fly.

How mild the spring comes in! the daisy buds

Lift up their golden blossoms to the sky.

How lovely are the pingles and the woods!

Here a beetle runs – and there a fly

Rests on the arum leaf in bottle-green,

And all the spring in this sweet lane is seen.

John Clare

Friday Poetry: John Clare

I have been reading some of my new poetry books and I rather enjoyed this poem so thought I would share it with you all.

This poem is by John Clare (1793-1864) who was an English poet who celebrated the English countryside in his poetry.

To the Fox Fern

Haunter of woods, lone wilds and solitudes

Where none but feet of birds and things as wild

Doth print a foot track near, where summer’s light

Buried in boughs forgets its glare and round thy crimped leaves

Feints in a quiet dimness fit for musings

And melancholy moods, with here and there

A golden thread of sunshine stealing through

The evening shadowy leaves that seem to creep

Like leisure in the shade.

John Clare