The Pansy

It does me good, thou flower of spring,

Thy blossoms to behold;
Thou bloom'st when birds begin to sing,
In purple and in gold.
Along the garden-beds so neat
Thy flowers their blooms display,
When sparrows chirp and lambkins bleat
And hopes look up for May.

Then Emma thinks the heart's-ease blooms
When she the pansy sees;
But I see sleep among the tombs,
With heart that's ill at ease,
That asks for what it's lost and loved—
A quiet home and friends,
Where nature's feelings were approved
And peace made life amends.

Where love was all I had to sing,
And there these pansy flowers
Came shining in the dews of spring
To cheer the sunny hours.
But years may pass, as they have passed,
And I may hope in vain,
With hopes that linger to the last,
To see them bloom again.

The fairest flower that ever bloomed,

Or garden ever blest,
Looks cold to care, and ne'er was doomed
To ease the heart's unrest.
The heart's-ease in her happy hour
Might Emma's fancy please,
But life will often pluck the flower
And feel but ill at ease.

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864,

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1984)