Verses on life


Seems strange when, from the various manuscripts, Clare seemed to spend a great deal of time on ‘Verses of life’, and yet it remained unpublished until the Tibbles included it in their two-volume collection in 1935; since then, nothing.  It dates from the middle of his voluminous output, and perhaps it simply just got forgotten.  Must admit, I do find it not only a good description of the human condition, but it contains a glimmering of hope too.  IMHO a masterpiece.

 

Verses on life

 

Life was & is & still will be

Of cares the endless history

By hopes conceived by trouble penned

Which joys began & sorrows end

 

If at the first a smile appears

'Tis but the prologue unto tears

Where each leaf is when turned oer

The echo of those turned before

 

Life was & is & will be on

A ruin with its glory gone

A wreck that braves the storms in vain

For calms it neer shall know again

 

A dream enjoyed with fancys eyes

Where hope awakes without a prize

A path whose starting all admire

That leads to naught but thorn & brier

 

Life is a game where thousands choose

To hazard even all & lose

A lottery where millions pawn

Their chance though blanks are death when drawn

 

One prize is all & they are wise

Who let their reason choose that prize

The gem of life it proves when got

& poor are they who have it not

 

Its value at the last shall be

A passport for eternity

Without bush or tree


The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon

& if the sun looks through tis with a face
Beamless & pale & round as if the moon
When done the journey of her nightly race
Had found him sleeping & supplied his place
For days the shepherds in the fields may be
Nor mark a patch of sky -- blindfold they trace
The plains that seem without a bush or tree
Whistling aloud by guess to flocks they cannot see

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Faded leaves away


I love the fitful gust that shakes 

The casement all the day
& from the glossy elm tree takes 
The faded leaves away
Twirling them by the window pane 
With thousand others down the lane

I love to see the cottage smoke 
Curl upwards through the trees
The pigeons nestled round the cote 
On November days like these
The cock upon the dunghill crowing
The mill sails on the heath a-going

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