A fine decembers day

The sun lookd out the dreary scene to bless
Old winters grinning horrors forcful smild
His flinty bosom thawd wi tenderness
So fiercfull savages have melted mild
Neath the sweet looks of womans lovliness
So poesy thy witcheries so wild
Doth warm the chilly heart of wants distress
& forcful give a joy to natures child
Spite of his anguish—ah he coud express
Full many a pleasure & full many a pain
Mingling like gaul & honey sun & rain
A fine decembers day thou art to me
Tho winter still beneath thy rays remain
Her grinning frowns are melted soft by thee

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Beauties of a Winter Forrest

Now tis Winter plainly shown by the icicles which hang pendant from the low mossy eaves of the woodmans cottage -- who now with his mattocks and leather doublet is ready to begin his winters labour to cut down the wood in the still forrest and plash [shape] the hedge to stand as a fence against intruding cattle -- He and he only knows & sees the beauties & horrors of winter mingled together tho the short day – 

 

For the shepherd cuts his journeys short & now only visits his flock on nescessity – Croodling with his hands in his pockets and his crook under his arms he tramples the frosty plain with dithering haste glad and eager to return to the warm corner of his cottage fire -- His favorite tree (where he was wont in summer to stretch his limbs in idle dalliance on the flowrey turf beneath its cooling shade) is now left desolate robbed both of its idle shepherd & the green foliage that clothd its summer boughs – 

 

The Milk-boy too in his morning rambles no longer saunters to the pasture as he had used to do in summer (pausing on every pathway flower & swanking idly along; often staring with open mouth thoughtlessly musing on the heavens as if he could wish for somthing in the passing clouds leaning his lazy sides gainst everystile he come{s} to and can never get his heavy cloutred shoon over the lowest without resting      sighing as he retires with the deepest regret to leave such easy chairs) – 

 

But now in hasty claumping tried finding nothing but cold & snow to pause on he never stops to cawm his thoughtless head about – but shuffling along he make{s} the frosty plain reecho with his hasty bruzzing foot-steps – the stiles which where (were) so hard to climb over in summer are now scald (scaled) with the greatest ease and he wishes for nothing but his journey's end – prefering the sheltering warm confines of the farm yard and stables before the frozen plain – 

 

But tis not so with the woodman no He glories in the weather & rising early in the dark morning ere the copper colored streaks appear to spread over the eastern skie – he pursues his journey over many new made hills and valleys of new fallen snow with “heart felt glee” cheering his rugged way with the oft repeated scrap of an harmless old song making the rihmy feathered thickets rezound in rural melody      Thus he cheerfully sallutes the winter morning till at length [he] enters the wild forrest – Here he brushes along his well known winding pad and the many intricating turns that leads to its deepest recesses – and then the beauties of witherd nature “surround him on every side”

 

Beauties of a winter Forrest (excerpt)

Hidden Treasures (Arbour Editions) 2016/9

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Desolation destruction

It might be thought this is a modern poem, but no, it is Clare writing 200 years ago.

All enemies open their mouths to deride 

Fear & snares are against us on every side 
Desolation destruction hath left us no shore 
With rivers of waters mine eyes runneth oer 
For the destruction of the daughter of my peoples renown 
Without intermission my tears trickle down 
Till the lord shall look down from the heavens & see 
I mourn for my own citys daughters & me 
Mine enemies chased me like a bird from its nest 
My heart from its home & would give me no rest 
They've cut off my life in the dungeon—to sever 
& cast a stone on the door of my freedom forever

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The Stranger

His presence was a peace to all
He bade the sorrowful rejoice
Pain turned to pleasure at his call
Health lived & issued from his voice
He healed the sick & sent abroad
The dumb rejoicing in the Lord

The blind met daylight in his eye
The joys of everlasting day
The sick found health in his reply
The cripple threw his crutch away
Yet he with troubles did remain
& suffered poverty and pain

Yet none could say of wrong he did
& scorn was ever standing bye
Accusers by their conscience chid
When proof was sought made no reply
Yet without sin he suffered more
Than ever sinners did before

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John Clare’s faith

His church was out of doors. He describes it constantly. Like William Wordsworth, he drew his beliefs from "Nature and her overflowing soul". Clare was the outside worshipper, and poem after poem by him delights in the freedom of the sabbath fields and hearing distant bells. His creed began: "Nature, thou truth from Heaven".

His fellow worshippers were shepherds, gypsies, and herdboys, though mostly he preferred to sing alone amid birds and flowers. The annual cycle of growth, the seasonal weather, and the continuity of creatures and plants in more or less the same few acres, witnessed to him the eternal. In fact, he summed up his faith in a long statement, "The Eternity of Nature", and in a perfect epigram for himself, here is part:

He loved the brooks soft sound
The swallow swimming by
He loved the daisy covered round
The cloud bedappled sky
To him the dismal appeared
The very voice of God
A silent man in lifes affairs
A thinker from a Boy
A Peasant in his daily cares
The Poet in his joy

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O thrice lucky town

[Image: 'The Saviour is Born' by Vitali Linitsky]

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O thrice lucky town (the more lucky poor creatures)

Who ere could have thought that such luck would be thine

Such a stranger as thou art to things o' like nature

But time bringeth all things to pass—so its sighing

& O' what a blessing o' poor peoples sides

Who just before this were near pining to dead

That his Lordships great goodness condescends to provide

An odd sort of something that they may be fed

What a good Christian heart must his honour possess

To 'mean him so low when so high riches rank him

In giving this hodgepodge—they cant do no less

Then down on their knappers & twenty times thank him

& benevolent charity sure such as this is

'll set others a going for the good o poor ce'turs

& warm squeezing Mizers to open their fis'es

& soften the wit-leather hearts of our betters

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Love cannot die

[Christ Child by Lorna L. Effler (detail)]

In crime & enmity they lie
Who sin & tell us love can die
Who say to us in slanders breath
That love belongs to sin & death
From heaven it came on angels wing
To bloom on earth eternal spring
In falsehoods enmity they lie
Who sin & tell us love can die

Twas born upon an angels breast
The softest dreams the sweetest rest
The brightest sun the bluest sky
Are loves own home & canopy
The thought that cheers this heart of mine
Is that of love—love so divine
They sin who say in slanders breath
That love belongs to sin & death

The sweetest voice that lips contain
The sweetest thought that leaves the brain
The sweetest feeling of the heart
Theres pleasure in its very smart
The scent of rose & cinnamon
Is not like love remembered on
In falsehoods enmity they lie
Who sin & tell us love can die

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