from "Child Harold"

















Tis winter & the fields are bare & waste
The air one mass of ‘vapour clouds & storms’
The suns broad beams are buried & oercast
& chilly glooms the midday light deforms
Yet comfort now the social bosom warms
Friendship of nature which I hourly prove
Even in this winter scene of frost & storms
Bare fields the frozen lake & leafless grove
Are natures grand religion & true love

(lines 901-909)

John Clare, The Living Year, 1841 
Tim Chilcott (ed)
(Nottingham: Trent Editions, 1999)

Remember Thee Love? Yes!

















Remember thee love? Yes! How can I forget thee
Since the very first hour that my happiness met thee
Remember thee love what the sword cannot sever
Is mine and mine only for ever and ever
Remember thee love? Yes! I will love remember
From April to May and from June to December
The past and the present and hereafter to come
I'll remember them all for thy heart is my home
I'll think of thee love i' thy happiest smile
Till the sunbeams o' day leave the Night to our Isle
Till the end o' the world thou my darling shall prove
And the finish o' times the begining o' Love

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864
ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell
(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1984)

from "The Parish"

















Here shines the man of morals Farmer Finch
Smooth tongued & fine an angel every inch
In outward guise & never known as yet
To run in Taverns Brothels or in debt
In public life all punctual honest true
& flattery gives his graces double due
For pitys gifts are never public made
But there his name & guinea is displayed

In double views to answer prides desire
To purchase praise & to be dubbed Esquire
A sunday never comes or foul or fair
That misses him at church throughout the year
The priest himself boasts as the mans reward
That he near preached a sermon but he heard
Such is the man in public all agree
That saints themselves no better men could be

But now of private life lets take the view
—In that same church & in that very pew
Where he each sabbath sings & reads & prays
He joins the vestry upon common days
Cheating the poor with leveys doubly laid
On their small means that wealth may be defrayed
To save his own & others his compeers
He wrongs the poor whom he has wrongd for years

Making the house of prayer the house of sin
& placing Satan as high priest within
Such is this good church going morral man
This man of morrals on deseptions plan
So knaves by cant steer free from sins complaints
& flatterys cunning coins them into saints
Tho justice Terror who the peace preserves
Meets more of slander then his deeds deserves


A blunt opinionated odd rude man
Severe & selfish in his every plan
Or right or wrong his overreasoning heart
Believes & often overacts his part
Tho pleading want oft meets with harsh replies
& truths too often listend too as lies
Altho he reigns with much caprice & whim
The poor can name worse governers then him


His gifts at Christmass time are yearly given
No doubt as toll fees on the road to heaven
Tho charity or looses byt or wins
Tis said to hide a multitude of sins
& wether wealth-bought-hopes shall fail or speed
The poor are blest & goodness marks the deed
Tho rather leaning to the stronger side
He preaches often on the sins of pride


(lines 1370 to 1417)

The Poems of John Clare
ed. J. W. Tibble (2 volumes, Dent, 1935)

Christmas (last)



















Around the glowing hearth at night,
The harmless laugh and winter tale
Go round, while parting friends delight
To toast each other o'er their ale;
The cotter oft with quiet zeal
Will musing o'er his Bible lean;
While in the dark the lovers steal
To kiss and toy behind the screen.
Old customs! Oh! I love the sound,
However simple they may be:
Whate'er with time hath sanction found,
Is welcome and is dear to me.
Pride grows above simplicity,
And spurns them from her haughty mind,
And soon the poet's song will be
The only refuge they can find.

(lines 113-128)

‘December’
The Shepherd's Calendar (1827)

Christmas (VII)






















The wooden horse with arching head,
Drawn upon wheels around the room,
The gilded coach of gingerbread,
And many-colour'd sugar-plum,
Gilt-cover'd books for pictures sought,
Or stories childhood loves to tell,
With many an urgent promise bought,
To get to-morrow's lesson well;
And many a thing, a minute's sport,
Left broken on the sanded floor,
When we would leave our play, and court
Our parents' promises for more.
Tho' manhood bids such raptures die,
And throws such toys aside as vain,
Yet memory loves to turn her eye,
And count past pleasures o'er again.

(lines 97 – 112)

‘December’The Shepherd's Calendar (
1827)

Christmas (VI)
















As tho' the homestead trees were drest,
In lieu of snow, with dancing leaves,
As tho' the sun-dried martin's nest,
Instead of ickles, hung the eaves,
The children hail the happy day—
As if the snow were April's grass,
And pleas'd, as 'neath the warmth of May,
Sport o'er the water froze to glass.
Thou day of happy sound and mirth,
That long with childish memory stays,
How blest around the cottage hearth
I met thee in my younger days!
Harping, with rapture's dreaming joys,
On presents which thy coming found,
The welcome sight of little toys,
The Christmas gift of cousins round.

(lines 81-96)

'December'
The Shepherd's Calendar (1827)

Christmas (V)

















While snows 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 parents' knees,
Sing scraps of carols o'er by heart.
And some, to view the winter weathers,
Climb up the window-seat with glee,
Likening the snow to falling feathers,
In fancy's infant ecstasy;
Laughing, with superstitious love,
O'er visions wild that youth supplies,
Of people pulling geese above,
And keeping Christmas in the skies.

(lines 65 - 80)

'December'
The Shepherd's Calendar (1827)

Christmas (IV)














And oft for pence and spicy ale,
With winter nosegays pinn'd before,
The wassail-singer tells her tale,
And drawls her Christmas carols o'er.
While prentice boy, with ruddy face,
And rime-bepowder'd, dancing locks,
From door to door with happy pace,
Runs round to claim his ‘Christmas box.’
The block upon the fire is put,
To sanction custom's old desires;
And many a faggot's bands are cut,
For the old farmers' Christmas fires;
Where loud-tongued Gladness joins the throng,
And Winter meets the warmth of May,
Till feeling soon the heat too strong,
He rubs his shins, and draws away.

(lines 49 - 64)

'December'
The Shepherd's Calendar (1827)

Christmas (III)

















The singing waits, a merry throng,
At early morn, with simple skill,
Yet imitate the angels' song,
And chant their Christmas ditty still;
And, mid the storm that dies and swells
By fits, in hummings softly steals
The music of the village bells,
Ringing round their merry peals.
When this is past, a merry crew,
Bedeck'd in masks and ribbons gay,
The ‘Morris-dance’ their sports renew,
And act their winter evening play.
The clown turn'd king, for penny-praise,
Storms with the actor's strut and swell;
And Harlequin, a laugh to raise,
Wears his hunchback and tinkling bell.

(lines 33 - 48)

'December'
The Shepherd's Calendar (1827)

Christmas (II)


















Neighbours resume their annual cheer,
Wishing, with smiles and spirits high,
Glad Christmas and a happy year
To every morning passer-by;
Milkmaids their Christmas journeys go,
Accompanied with favour'd swain;
And children pace the crumping snow,
To taste their granny's cake again.
The shepherd, now no more afraid,
Since custom doth the chance bestow,
Starts up to kiss the giggling maid
Beneath the branch of misletoe
That 'neath each cottage beam is seen,
With pearl-like berries shining gay;
The shadow still of what hath been,
Which fashion yearly fades away.

(lines 17 - 32)

'December'
The Shepherd's Calendar (1827)

Christmas (I)

















Glad Christmas comes, and every hearth
Makes room to give him welcome now,
E'en want will dry its tears in mirth,
And crown him with a holly bough;
Though tramping 'neath a winter sky,
O'er snowy paths and rimy stiles,
The housewife sets her spinning by
To bid him welcome with her smiles.
Each house is swept the day before,
And windows stuck with evergreens,
The snow is besom'd from the door,
And comfort crowns the cottage scenes.
Gilt holly, with its thorny pricks,
And yew and box, with berries small,
These deck the unused candlesticks,
And pictures hanging by the wall.

(lines 1 – 16)

'December'
The Shepherd's Calendar (1827)

Dobson and Judie or The Cottage






















Winter wrapt in her dismal forms
Cannot their happiness annoy
Cold days, black nights, and snowy storms
Inspire them with reflective joy
Old dob when sitting by the fire
Will often bid old judie ‘hark
‘I fear the wind is rising higher
‘And o the night is dismal dark’
‘Ah think’ he cries, (while judie smoaks)
‘In this most dismal wintry night
‘How many poor tir'd travelling folks
‘Now meets the storm in woeful plight!’
‘Perhaps now at this very hour
‘Some poor lost soul lays—down his head
‘Beneath a tree which turns no shower
‘And cannot find a better bed’
‘For cloth'd with snow instead of dew
‘No longer they a shelter yield
‘More worse I know 'twill winnow thro
‘Then standing in the open field’
‘O heavens now the wind gets higher
‘It grieves me;—yet I'm pleas'd to think
‘How we are blest with house and fire
‘A good warm bed, and meat, and drink,’
‘And if the lost:—(I hope as well)
‘Should ever find their homes again
That true old-saying then will tell
'How sweet the pleasure after pain!’


(Lines 133 - 160)

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822
ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger
(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

The fallen elm (final)























Thus came enclosure—ruin was her guide
But freedoms clapping hands enjoyed the sight
Tho comforts cottage soon was thrust aside
And workhouse prisons raised upon the site.
Een natures dwelling far away from men
The common heath became the spoilers prey;
The rabbit had not where to make his den
And labours only cow was drove away.
No matter — wrong was right and right was wrong
And freedoms brawl was sanction to the song.
Such was thy ruin music making Elm;
The rights of freedom was to injure thine:
As thou wert served, so would they overwhelm
In freedoms name the little that is mine.

And these are knaves that brawl for better laws
And cant of tyranny in stronger powers
Who glut their vile unsatiated maws
And freedoms birthright from the weak devours.

The fallen elm (4)
















Thoust sheltered hypocrites in many a shower
That when in power would never shelter thee.
Thoust heard the knave supply his canting powers
With wrongs illusions when he wanted friends;
That bawled for shelter when he lived in showers
And when clouds vanished made thy shade amends
With axe at root he felled thee to the ground
And barked of freedom — O I hate that sound
(Time hears its visions speak – and age sublime
Hath made thee a disciple unto time)
It grows the cant terms of enslaving tools
To wrong another by the name of right
It grows a licence with oer bearing fools
To cheat plain honesty by force of might

(lines 43-56)

The fallen elm (3)















Friend not inanimate — though stocks and stones
There are, and many formed in flesh and bones.
Thou own a language by which hearts are stirred
Deeper than by a feeling clothed in word,
Thine spoke a feeling known in every tongue,
Language of pity and the force of wrong.
What cant assumes, what hypocrites may dare,
Speaks home to truth and shows it what they are.
I see a picture that thy fate displays
And learn a lesson from thy destiny;
Self interest saw thee stand in freedoms ways -
So thy old shadow must a tyrant be.
Thoust heard the knave, abusing those in power,
Bawl freedom loud and then oppress the free

(lines 29-42)

The fallen Elm (2)











Old favourite tree, thoust seen times changes lower
But change till now did never come to thee;
For time beheld thee as his sacred dower
And nature claimed thee her domestic tree.
Storms came and shook thee with a living power
Yet stedfast to thy home thy roots hath been;
Summers of thirst parched round thy homely bower
Till earth grew iron — still thy leaves was green.
The childern sought thee in thy summer shade
And made their play house rings of sticks and stone
The mavis sang and felt himself alone
While in they leaves his early nest was made,
And I did feel his happiness mine own
Nought heeding that our friendship was betrayed

(lines 15-28)

The fallen elm (1)























During the next week I will be posting each day a 14-line portion of Clare's important poem "The fallen Elm"

Old Elm that murmured in our chimney top
The sweetest anthem autumn ever made
And into mellow whispering calms would drop
When showers fell on thy many coloured shade
And when dark tempests mimic thunder made -
While darkness came as it would strangle light
With the black tempest of a winter night
That rocked thee like a cradle to thy root -
How did I love to hear the winds upbraid
Thy strength without — while all within was mute.
It seasoned comfort to our hearts desire
We felt thy kind protection like a friend
And pitched our chairs up closer to the fire
Enjoying comforts that was never penned

(lines 1-14)

John Clare, Poems of the Middle Period,
ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and P.M.S. Dawson,
Volume  III (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998)

John Clare 'facebook' group

Be really good if all John Clare lovers could join the new John Clare group on facebook  - Click on the title above.

[Come and join us... we now (1st June) have over 100 members]

Langley Bush














O Langley Bush the shepherds sacred shade
Thy hollow trunk oft gaind a look from me
Full many a journey oer the heath Ive made
For such like curious things I love to see
What truth the story of the swain alows
That tells of honours which thy young days knew
Of 'langley court' being kept beneath thy boughs
I cannot tell-thus much I know is true
That thou art reverencd even the rude clan
Of lawless gipseys drove from stage to stage
Pilfering the hedges of the husband man
Leave thee as sacred in thy withering age
Both swains & gipseys seem to love thy name
Thy spots a favourite wi the smutty crew
& soon thou must depend on gipsey fame
Thy mulldering trunk is nearly rotten thro
My last doubts murmuring on the zephers swell
My last looks linger on thy boughs wi pain
To thy declining age I bid farwell
Like old companions neer to meet again

The Poems of John Clare
ed. J. W. Tibble (2 volumes, Dent, 1935)


















All that is left of Langley Bush in 2012... a bump in a field, surrounded by 'Enclosed land legally acquired' from the commons in the early 19th century.

The Mores (excerpt)


Far spread the moorey ground a level scene
Bespread with rush & one eternal green
That never felt the rage of blundering plough
Though centurys wreathed springs blossoms on its brow
Still meeting plains that stretched them far away
In uncheckt shadows of green brown & grey
Unbounded freedom ruled the wandering scene
Nor fence of ownership crept in between
To hide the prospect of the following eye
lts only bondage was the circling sky
One mighty flat undwarfed by bush & tree
Spread its faint shadow of immensity
& lost itself which seemed to eke its bounds
In the blue mist the orisons edge surrounds
(lines 1-14)

Selected Poems of John Clare
ed. James Reeves (London: Heinemann, 1954)

The Forest Maid























 O once I loved a pretty girl, and dearly love her still;
  I courted her in happiness for two short years or more.
  And when I think of Mary it turns my bosom chill,
  For my little of life's happiness is faded and is o'er.
  O fair was Mary Littlechild, and happy as the bee,
  And sweet was bonny Mary as the song of forest bird;
  And the smile upon her red lips was very dear to me,
  And her tale of love the sweetest that my ear has ever heard.

  O the flower of all the forest was Mary Littlechild;
  There's few could be so dear to me and none could be so fair.
  While many love the garden flowers I still esteem the wild,
  And Mary of the forest is the fairest blossom there.
  She's fairer than the may flowers that bloom among the thorn,
  She's dearer to my eye than the rose upon the brere;
  Her eye is brighter far than the bonny pearls of morn,
  And the name of Mary Littlechild is to me ever dear.

  O once I loved a pretty girl. The linnet in its mirth
  Was never half so blest as I with Mary Littlechild--
  The rose of the creation, and the pink of all the earth,
  The flower of all the forest, and the best for being wild.
  O sweet are dews of morning, ere the Autumn blows so chill,--
  And sweet are forest flowers in the hawthorn's mossy shade,
  But nothing is so fair, and nothing ever will
  Bloom like the rosy cheek of my bonny Forest Maid.

  J.L. Cherry
  Life and Remains of John Clare
  London: Frederick Warne & Co.
  Northampton: J. Taylor & Son. 1873

Now evening rosey streaks - a ribbond sky















Now evenings rosey streaks—a ribbond sky
Spreads in the golden light of the far west
& mighty rocks are pillowed dark & high
The image & the prototype of rest
The heavens prophesy where peace is blest—
A stillness soft as fall of silent dews
Is felt around—the very dusk looks blest
As is the maiden while her heart pursues
Her evening walk oer fields in silent dews
Ave Maria tis the hour of love
When sighs & pains & tears on beautys breast
Are whispered into blessings from above
Ave Maria tis the hour of rest
For man & woaman & the weary beast
& parents love the minature delights
That blesses all with sleep & quiet rest
Ave Maria tis the hour of night
Like to an Indian Maiden dressed in white


The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864
ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell
(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1984)

The beauties of Myra...


















The beauties of Myra in its lustre now dawning
As the spring is first seen to disclose
When the dew dropping silver of May's infant morning
Unfoldeth the blush of the Rose
While her charms O as varied as summers profusion
& Ripe as the autumn for love
In her blue Eyes sweet beaming the thrilling confusion
Near failing each bosom to move
While the snows of the Winter improvd on her bosom
No need of a Rival be told
— & O my sad pains — when I went to disclosem
I found it as killing & cold

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822
ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger
(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

From "Child Harold"


















Now melancholly autumn comes anew
With showery clouds & fields of wheat tanned brown
Along the meadow banks I peace pursue
& see the wild flowers gleaming up & down
Like sun & light—the ragworts golden crown
Mirrors like sunshine when sunbeams retire
& silver yarrow—there's the little town
& oer the meadows gleams that slender spire
Reminding me of one—& waking fond desire

I love thee nature in my inmost heart
Go where I will thy truth seems from above
Go where I will thy landscape forms a part
Of heaven—e'en these fens where wood nor grove
Are seen—their very nakedness I love
For one dwells nigh that secret hopes prefer
Above the race of women—like the dove
I mourn her abscence—fate that would deter
My hate for all things—strengthens love for her

(lines 357 to 374)
The Poems of John Clare,
ed. J. W. Tibble (2 volumes, Dent, 1935)

Happy 90th Birthday Ronnie...


[Ronnie, as always, deep in conversation.  Here with musician David Rowe at an Inn in Great Casterton after visiting the church where John & Patty Clare were married]

A nice Guardian leader in today's on Ronald Blythe in its 'In praise of ...' section.  It reads:

Tucked away on the back page of the Church Times each week is one of the most elegant and thoughtful columns in British journalism. Word from Wormingford mixes acute, elegiac rural observation with a strand of English mystical thinking that often seems to reach back to its 17th-century roots. Its author, Ronald Blythe, is 90 today. He lives down a Saxon track in the farm bequeathed to him by his friend, the artist John Nash. The son of a farmworker, he has spent nearly all his life in Suffolk and is probably best remembered for Akenfield, the 1969 book (made into a Peter Hall film) that chronicled the changing character and rhythms o f a fictional East Anglian village. "A hundred years from now," wrote this paper, "anyone wanting to know how things were on the land will turn more profitably to Akenfield than to a sheaf of anaemically professional social surveys." May there be many more Words from Wormingford.

You promised me, a year ago





















COLIN
You promised me, a year ago,
When autumn bleach'd the mistletoe,
That you and I should be as one;
But now another autumn's gone—
Its solemn knell is in the blast,
And love's bright sun is overcast;
Yet flowers will bloom and birds will sing,
And e'en the winter claim the spring.

LUCY
The hedges will be green again,
And flowers will come on hill and plain;
And though we meet a rainy day,
The hawthorn will be white with May.
If love and nature still agree,
Green leaves will clothe the trysting-tree;
And when these pleasing days you view,
Think Lucy's heart yet be true.

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864
ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell
(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1984)

From "The Autumn Robin"

















Sweet little bird in russet coat
The livery of the closing year
I love thy lonely plaintive note
& tiney whispering song to hear
While on the stile or garden seat
I sit to watch the falling leaves
The songs thy little joys repeat
My lonliness relieves
& many are the lonely minds
That hear & welcome thee anew
Not taste alone but humble hinds
Delight to praise & love thee too
The veriest clown biside his cart
Turns from his song with many a smile
To see thee from the hedgerow start
To sing upon the stile


(lines 1-16)

Poems by John Clare, ed. Norman Gale
(Rugby: George E. Over, 1901)

From "The Last of Autumn"























A wild confusion hangs upon the ear,
And something half romantic meets the view;
Arches half fill'd with wither'd leaves appear,
Where white foam stills the billow boiling through.

Those yellow leaves that litter on the grass,
'Mong dry brown stalks that lately blossom'd there,
Instil a mournful pleasure as they pass:
For melancholy has its joy to spare—

A joy that dwells in autumn's lonely walks,
And whispers, like a vision, what shall be,
How flowers shall blossom on those wither'd stalks,
And green leaves clothe each nearly naked tree.

Oft in the woods I hear the thundering gun;
And, through the brambles as I cautious creep,
A bustling hare, the threatening sound to shun,
Oft skips the pathway in a fearful leap;

And spangled pheasant, scared from stumpy bush,
Oft blunders rustling through the yellow boughs;
While farther off, from beds of reed and rush,
The startled woodcock leaves its silent sloughs.
  
The Shepherd's Calendar, with Village Stories, and Other Poems (1827) - (lines 29 – 48)

Autumn
















Lo! Autumn's come—wheres now the woodlands green?
The charming Landscape? and the flowrey plain?
All all are fled and left this motly scene
Of fading yellow tingh'd with russet stain
Tho these seem desolatley wild and drear
Yet these are spring to what we still shall find
Yon trees must all in nakednes appear
'Reft of their folige by the blustry wind
Just so 't'will fare with me in Autumns life
Just so I'd wish—but may the trunk and all
Die with the leaves—nor taste that wintry strife
Where Sorrows urge,—but still impede the fall.

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822
ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger
(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)