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)

Falling Leaves

Hail falling leaves that patter round

Admonishers & friends
Reflection wakens at the sound
—So life thy pleasure ends
How frail the bloom how short the stay
That terminates us all
To day we flourish green & gay
Like leaves tomorrow fall

Alas how short is fourscore years
Lifes utmost stretch—a span
& shorter still when past apears
The vain, vain life of man

These falling leaves once flaunted high
O pride how vain to trust
Now witherd on the ground they lye
To mingle with the dust

So death serves all—& wealth & pride
Must all their pomp resign
Een kings shall lay their crowns aside
To mix their dust wi' mine!
—The leaves how once they cloath'd the trees
Nones left behind to tell
The branch is naked to the breeze
Nor known from whence they fell

A few more years as they—the same
Are now I then shall be
With nothing left to tell my name
Or answer—‘who was he?’
Green turfs alow'd forgotten heaps
Is all that I shall have
Save that the little daisy creeps
To deck my humble Grave

Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)

SONG : Since Edward departed and lef me behind

Since Edward departed and lef me behind

My heart is for ever in fear
But if a short hope in his abscence I find
Tis in Summer the prime of the year

When the wind with the Zephers can scarce intervene
A Curse on the billows to form

When the Sky's Cloudless aspect so clear and serene
Puts me out of doubt of a storm

Then a Moments Composure I catch from the breeze
And fancy my Edward as safe on the seas

But O when in Autumn I shrink at the thought
The Hurricanes terribly rise
With such force as to meet with resistance from naught
And toss the ships up to the skies
& o to experience the lightnings red flash
Which darts thro' my window at night
When instant the thunder rolls off with a Clash
That stuns me to death with affright

And when it is over my heart know's no ease
From thinking what Edward endures on the seas

O then thou almighty that rides on the wind
And makes the dread thunder to roar
To a poor timid maiden in pity be kind
And Bid it to thunder no more
Make the wind all his strength so oerbearing resign
Or let him have no other power
Then the Zephers so harmles:—with them let him join
To dance in the Leaves of my Bower

Then a daily composure I'll catch from the Breeze
And for ever think Edward as safe on the seas

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

Song: Theres pleasure on the pasture lea

Theres pleasure on the pasture lea

& peace within the cottage
But theres na peace at a' for me
While love is in its dotage

I never have a thought o' gude
But worser thoughts will soil it
When heaven is man's happiest mood
The deil is sure to spoil it

Mans sweetest choice is womans yet
Scenes where her kiss was granted
The choicest place where first they met
Mid flowers bye nature planted

& there they dwell in fancys flights
In valley field & glen
In pleasant dreams & heart delights
Till neist they meet agen

The Later Poems of John Clare

ed. Eric Robinson and Geoffrey Summerfield

(Manchester University Press, 1964)

A tribute to David Powell

          David Powell has been one of the most significant 20^th-century scholars to proclaim the genius of John Clare, and it was very appropriate that he was in charge of the Clare manuscripts in the Northampton Central Library.  He wrote his thesis for his B.A. on Clare and published an anthology of Clare’s poems, especially assembled for children.  That book is still the best book published on Clare specifically directed to the young.

          He and I worked together for many years and David always was reliable, and – as a librarian should be – excellent at finding obscure details of Clare’s background.  What Margaret Grainger did for the Helpston Clare, David did for the Northampton Clare.  They were both great champions of the poet because they both drew upon their own roots for sustenance.  David and I worked together in some of the great British and American collections of Clare’s papers – at the British Library, at Oxford and Cambridge, at Harvard and Yale, at the University of Texas, and, of course, at Northampton and Peterborough in England.

          He enjoyed his visits to North America and soon made his way around New York and Philadelphia as if he were a commercial traveler.  I think of him as a loyal friend in a great undertaking.  He is irreplaceable.  I must also add that he was the most loyal fan of the Northamptonshire Cricket Club – and so a man of good taste!  He was an inveterate walker – in that role as well, Clare would have appreciated him.

Eric Robinson

1 October 2012

           In the following pages children — of all ages — can come into the kingdom of the child-like Clare, and even when he speaks of the ways of nature and the inhabitants of the countryside beyond our immediate acquaintance with them we may feel at home. For him beauty certainly was truth, and there was plenty for his watchful, grateful poetic self to receive. It is with particular regard that I view Mr Powell's selection of the poems. He is one who has already done faithful service in another way for Clare, and for those who 'sue to know Clare better', he has indeed, through his access to many manuscripts and books and relics of the poet, been living in his spiritual company for years past. The sensitive quality in the choice of poems will be quickly acknowledged by all who look into the book, town dwellers equally with those who may still notice Clare's birds, flowers, trees, weathers and village children at their threshold or near it.

Edmund Blunden
(from the Introduction to "The Wood is Sweet" - Bodley Head 1966)

Song, from Child Harold

The floods come o’er the meadow leas

The dykes are full & brimming
Field furrows reach the horses knees
Where wild ducks oft are swimming
The skies are black the fields are bare
The trees their coats are loosing
The leaves are dancing in the air
The sun its warmth refusing

Brown are the flags & fading sedge
& tanned the meadow plains
Bright yellow is the osier hedge
Beside the brimming drains
The crows sit on the willow tree
The lake is full below
But still the dullest thing I see
Is self that wanders slow

The dullest scenes are not so dull
As thoughts I cannot tell
The brimming dykes are not so full
As my heart’s silent swell
I leave my troubles to the winds
With none to share a part
The only joy my feeling finds
Hides in an aching heart

Child Harold (840 - 863)
Poems of John Clare's Madness

ed. Geoffrey Grigson (RKP, 1949)

Sun-rising in September

How delightfuly pleasant when the cool chilling air

By september is thrown oer the globe
When each morning both hedges and bushes do wear
Instead of their green—a grey robe.
To see the sun rise thro the skirts of the wood
In his mantle so lovley and red
It cheers up my spirits and does me much good
As thro the cold stubbles I tred.
Tho not that his beams more advances the scene
Or adds to the Landscape a charm
But all that delights me by him may be seen
That the ensuing hours will be warm.
And this with the poet as yet in the world
In a parrarel sence will comply
For when he does view the gay scenes there unfurl'd
Tis only to light him on high.

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

from "The Parish"

The Vicars greensward pathways once his pride

His woodbine bowers that used his doors to hide
& he himself full often in his chair
Smoaking his pipe & conning sermons there
The yard & garden roods his only farms
& all his stock the hive bees yearly swarms
Are swept away—their produce & their pride
Were doomed to perish when the owner dyd
Fresh faces came with little taste or care
& joyd to ruin what was his to rear
His garden plants & blossoms all are fled
& docks & nettles blossom in their stead

(lines 1634 to 1645)

The Poems of John Clare,

ed. J. W. Tibble (2 volumes, Dent, 1935)

SONG: The bird cherrys white in the dews o' the morning

The bird cherrys white in the dews o' the morning

The wildings are blushing along the hedgeside
The gold blossomed furze the wild heaths are adorning
& the brook in the hollow runs light by my side
But where is the charmer the voice of the maiden
Whose presence once charmed me the whole summers day
The bushes wi' gold & wi' silver oerlaiden
Looks cold i' the morning when Phebe's away

The sun rises bright oer the oaks in the spinney
Bringing gold unto gold on the winbushes there
Blossoming bright as a new minted guinea
& moist wi' the mist of the morns dewy air
The flower is bowed down & I let the tired Bee be
All wet wi' night dew & unable to flye
Such a kindness in me would be pleasure to Phebe
A poor trampled Insect would cause her to sigh

The white thorn is coming wi' bunches of blossoms
The broad sheets of daiseys spread out on the lea
The bunches of cowslips spread out their gold bosoms
While the oak balls appear on the old spinney tree

Come forward my Phebe wi' dews of the morning
By the old crooked brook let thy early walk be
Where the brambles arched stalks—glossy leaves are adorning
& bits o' woo' hang on the bark o' the tree

Come forward my Phebe by times in the morning
Come forward my Phebe in blebs o' the dew
They bead the young cowslip like pearls i' the dawning
& we'll mark the young shower where the green linnet flew
I'll court thee & woo thee from morning to e'ening
Where the primrose looks bright in the ivy's dark green
& the oak oer the brook in its white bark is leaning
There let me & Phebe wi' morning be seen

The Oxford Authors: John Clare,

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell (Oxford, 1984)

Song, from Child Harold

[Image : A Corner of the Oasis - Carry Akroyd]

No single hour can stand for nought

No moment hand can move
But calenders a aching thought
Of my first lonely love

Where silence doth the loudest call
My secrets to betray
As moonlight holds the night in thrall
As suns reveal the day

I hide it in the silent shades
Till silence finds a tongue
I make its grave where time invades
Till time becomes a song

I bid my foolish heart be still
But hopes will not be chid
My heart will beat—& burn—& chill
First love will not be hid

When summer ceases to be green
& winter bare & blea—
Death may forget what I have been
But I must cease to be

When words refuse before the crowd
My Marys name to give
The muse in silence sings aloud
& there my love will live

Child Harold (lines 493-516)

The Poems of John Clare,

ed. J. W. Tibble (2 volumes, Dent, 1935)

Summers in its glory now

Summer's in its glory now     Sweet the flower and green the bough

Dry is every swamp and slough     My own kind deary

Could I press thy bonny bosom     Swelling like a bursting blossom
Sweetly ripe as I suppose 'em     Then heaven would be near thee

Fair and buxsome bonny Lassie     Let us seek for places grassy
Where the brook it dimples glassy     There I'll love thee deary

On thy lilly bosom leaning     View thy eyes to guess their meaning
Kiss where not a look has been in     Thy lilly bosom deary

Clasp thee round thy gimpsy middle     Playing loves tunes without the fiddle
And loves secret joys unriddle     To kiss and cheer me

To throw my arms about thy shoulders     And in the band O' love enfold us
I' these green shades where none behold us     Where heaven would be near thee

Come my blyth and bonny deary     Let me clasp thee and lie near thee
And I of love shall ne'er be weary     To clasp my bonny deary

To kiss thy cheeks O' new blown roses     Thy breasts where hills O' alpine snow's is
As sweet as ever love supposes     To glad and cheer me

About thy bonny arms I'll clasp thee     And i' the vice o' fondness grasp thee
Till matrimony's charms shall hasp thee     And bind thee aye my deary

The Later Poems of John Clare,

ed. Eric Robinson and Geoffrey Summerfield

(Manchester University Press, 1964)

Sorrow is felt not seen...

Sorrow is felt not seen—the grief of verse

Is writ by those who share not in our pain
The pawl embrodered & the sable hearse
Are symbols not of sorrow but of gain
What of the scutcheoned hearse & pawl remain
When all is past—there sorrow is no more
Sorrows heart aches—& burning scars will stain
As morning dews—as april showers is oer
Some tears fall on their graves again

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell

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

Infant Grave

Beneath the Sod where smiling creeps

The daisy into view
The Ashes of an Infant sleeps
Whose soul's as smiling too
— Ah doubly happy — doubly blest —
Had I so happy been
Recall'd to heavens eternal rest
Ere it knew how to sin
Thrice happy Infant great the bliss
Alone reserv'd for thee
Such joy — twas my sad fate to miss
& thy good luck to see

For Oh when all must rise again
To have their sentence gave
What crowds will wish with me in vain
They'd fill'd an Infants Grave

John Clare, Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)

'Revisiting the Helpston grave of John Clare' by Charles Causley

[It is very rare for me to post anything but poems by John Clare to this weblog... but in Charles Causley we encounter a poet with a love of Clare and his work.  Here is his poem 'Revisiting the Helpston grave of John Clare ']

Hills sank like green fleets on the land's long rim

About the village of toast-coloured stone.
Leaving the car beside the Blue Bell, we
Walked with a clutch of flowers the clear lane
Towards the grave.

It was well combed, and quiet as before.
An upturned stone boat
Beached at God's thick door.
Only the water in the spiked grave-pot
Smelt sourly of death.
Yet no wind seemed to blow
From off the fen or sea
The flowers flickered in the painted pot
Like green antennae,
As though John Clare from a sounding skull
Brim with a hundred years of dirt and stone
Signalled to us;
And light suddenly breathed
Over the plain.

Later, drinking whisky in The Bull at Peterborough,
The face of the poet
Lying out on the rigid plain
Stared at me
As clearly as it once stared through
The glass coffin-lid
In the church-side pub on his burial day:
Head visible, to prove
The bulging brain was not taken away
By surgeons, digging through the bone and hair
As if to find poems still
Beating there;
Then, like an anchor, to be lowered fast
Out of creation's pain, the stropping wind,
Deep out of sight, into the world's mind.

Charles Causley

I'd Gaze my Soul on Thee

I wish I was the wild woodbine

Twining round the white thorn bough
I wish I was the wild hedge rose
Upon thy bonny bosom now
To feel thy thumb and finger nip
About my twisted stem
The flowers now toutch thy ruby lip
To kiss their mornings gem

My flowers would kiss those lips o' thine
That kiss'd the dewdrops made divine

I wish I was what I am not
The wild flower nodding on the Lea
To win thy notice on the spot
And touch thy bosom fond and free
To touch thy bosom lily white
To kiss thy shoulders marble bright
And in thy bosom dwell
To be thy hearts one whole delight
In thought and sense as well

My hearts one love could I but be
A flower I'd gaze my soul on thee

The Later Poems of John Clare,

ed. Eric Robinson and Geoffrey Summerfield

(Manchester University Press, 1964)

Ballad: "Ive often had hours..."

Ive often had hours to be meeting the lasses

& wisht that the sun in his setting coud stay
& old creeping time a doz'd over his glasses
& make lovers hours at least long as a day

But when at the even loves presence were greeting
Swift as the race horse time seems to spur bye
& when lovers part till the next hour of meeting
As slow as a snail creeps the lagging hours dye

& Ive been wi many as fair as thee Mary
& Ive kissd full many a cheek red as thine
& round as soft bosoms in dresses as airy
My arm did full often enrapturd entwine

But never o never such 'lectrified feeling
Ere throbd thro my heart be as fair as they be
When round thy sweet charms my embraces was stealing
My soul stood spectator in presence of thee

The mould of an angel gave birth to thee Mary
& all reason startld away from thy charms
My senses mixd vapour in summer gales airy
& thou seemd imortal when rapt in my arms

& Ive met wi blisses & crosses contrary
But that happy moment that blest me wi thee
That heaven crownd swoonings unrivald my Mary
Nor can hell be worse then that parting wi thee

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822,

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

The Courtship (excerpt)

A woman’s is the dearest love

There’s nought on earth sincerer

The leisure upon beauty’s breast

Can any thing be dearer?

The muses they are living things

& beauty ever dear

& though I worshipped stocks & stones

T’was woman every-where

In loves delight my steps was led

I sung of beauty’s choice

I saw her in the books I read

& all was Mary Joyce

I saw her love in beauty’s face

I saw her in the rose

I saw her in the fairest flowers

In every weed that grows

Poems of John Clare's Madness,

ed. Geoffrey Grigson (RKP, 1949)

Summer Evening (excerpt)

From the hay-cock's moisten'd heaps,

Startled frogs take vaunting leaps;

And along the shaven mead,

Jumping travellers, they proceed :

Quick the dewy grass divides.

Moistening sweet their speckled sides ;

From the grass or flowret's cup,

Quick the dew-drop bounces up.

Now the blue fog creeps along.

And the bird's forgot his song :

Flowers now sleep within their hoods ;

Daisies button into buds ;

From soiling dew the butter-cup

Shuts his golden jewels up.

Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)

Sports of the Village (Song)

Yesterday night I drest up for the dancing

& vowd for a sweet heart if so it coud be
& no sooner there but a wench fell a glancing
Her eye in loves language: ‘Im waiting for thee’
What shoud I do but I ‘quires are ye willing
To go down a dance a few minutes wi me
Be sure ont she were so I outs wi my shilling
& stopt the old scraper to pay him his fee

Then stampt the foot of the scraper to warn us
& off wi the fiddle as pleasd as coud be
I fudgd to the end of the dance were in corners
I often snatchd kisses when no one coud see
I thought how I knackt it & sweet was the beagle
All but what I ought to have ta’en her to be
Tho her black eye as brazen & bold as the eagle
Oft glanced [in] loves language to more beside me

She left me at morn & went home wi another
The sigh was sold cheaply I left wi her then
But curse on her deepness love lightly might bother
I neer dreampt on troubles Id fall in agen
I went to the feast & the beagle there met me
The gleg of her eye was as keen as before
& tryd but as usual all trappings to get me
But I swore to my sen Id be fooléd no more

& what did she do but she vowd she’d expose me
& gun say Id playd her the follies of youth
& taking in tear drops be’slubberd her bosom
Till folks they were foold to believe it the truth
My case to be’sure it got mighty alarming
Twas provd I had bin wi the bitch by the bye
But as to the deed of her innosence harming
The king on his throne wornt less guilty then I

& she told her griefs in a many sad ditty

& she threatnd poison as wishing to dye
Till old women out wi their snuff rags in pity
To stop the false teardrops that blinkt in her eye
Ah curse on the night I ere gangd to the dancing
The parish hounds forcd the bad bargain on me
Ive payd dear enuff for the hisseys eye glancing
& provd a fools take in I then coudnt see

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822,

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)