Balm & Breezes

The Paigles Bloom In Showers In Grassy Close

How Sweet To Be Among Their Blossoms Led
& Hear Sweet Nature To Herself Discourse
While Pale The Moon Is Bering Over Head

& Hear The Grazeing Cattle Softly Tread

Cropping The Hedgerows Newly Leafing Thorn
Sounds Soft As Visions Murmured Oer In Bed
At Dusky Eve Or Sober Silent Morn
For Such Delights Twere Happy Man Was Born

Now Come The Balm & Breezes Of The Spring

Not With The Pleasures Of My Early Days
When Nature Seemed One Endless Song To Sing
A Joyous Melody & Happy Praise
Ah Would They Come Agen—But Life Betrays
Quicksands & Gulphs & Storms That Howl & Sting
All Quiet Into Madness & Delays
Care Hides The Sunshine With Its Raven Wing
& Hell Glooms Sadness Oer The Songs Of Spring

At this period in 1841 Clare capitalised every word in his manuscripts.  No one has yet come up with a convincing explanation as to why

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A flush of green

Though 'neath young Aprils watery sky
The sun gleam'd warm & roads were dry
& though the valleys bush & tree

Still naked stood yet on the lea 
A flush of green & fresh'ning glow
In melting patches 'gan to show 
That swelling buds would soon again 
In summers livery bless the plain
The thrushes too 'gan clear their throats
& got by heart some two'r three notes 
Of their intended summer song
To cheer me as I stroll'd along

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Behind the screen

Man is an insect life his cell
Nor lives he till death breaks the shell
He dreameth here & waketh there
So what forsooth hath life to heir? 
A painted nothing of the mind
Whose peace we hunt & never find
A fairy-tale of what hath been
Where all is heard & nothing seen
A mystic show which thoughts devise
A rumour clothed in prophecies
A dream unmarred a hope deferred
Here all is fancy nothing heard
Anon man peeps behind the screen
The spell is out the show is seen

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Love’s riddle

"Unriddle this riddle, my own Jenny love,
Unriddle this riddle for me,
And if ye unriddle the riddle aright,
A kiss your prize shall be,
And if ye riddle the riddle all wrong,
Ye're treble the debt to me:

I'll give thee an apple without any core;
I'll give thee a cherry where stones never be;
I'll give thee a palace, without any door,
And thou shalt unlock it without any key;
I'll give thee a fortune that kings cannot give,
Nor any one take from thee."

"How can there be apples without any core?
How can there be cherries where stones never be?
How can there be houses without any door?
Or doors I may open without any key?
How can'st thou give fortunes that kings cannot give,
When thou art no richer than me?"

"My head is the apple without any core;
In cherries in blossom no stones ever be;
My mind is love's palace without any door,
Which thou can'st unlock, love, without any key.
My heart is the wealth, love, that kings cannot give,
Nor any one take it from thee

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Loitering

& here the shepherd with his sheep
& with his lovley maid
Together where these waters creep
In loitering dalliance playd 

& here the Cow boy lovd to sit
& plate his rushy thongs
& dabble in the fancied pit
& chase the Minnow throwngs

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Infant April

The infant April joins the spring
& views its watery skye
As youngling linnet trys its wing
& fears at first to flye
With timid step she ventures on
& hardly dares to smile
The blossoms open one by one
& sunny hours beguile
But finer days approacheth yet
With scenes more sweet to charm
& suns arive that rise & set
Bright strangers to a storm
& as the birds with louder song
Each mornings glory cheers

With bolder step she speeds along
& looses all her fears

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The ploughman’s song

"My love is young & handsome 
As any in the town
Shes worth a ploughmans ransom 
In the drab cotton gown”
He sang & turned his furrow oer 
& urged his team along
While on the willow as before 
The old crow croaked his song
The ploughman sung his rustic lay 
& sung of Phoebe all the day

The crow he was in love no doubt 
& [so were] many things
The ploughman finished many a bout
& lustily he sings
"My love she is a milking maid 
With red rosy cheek
Of cotton drab her gown was made
I loved her many a week”
His milking maid the ploughman sung 
Till all the fields around him rung

 

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