Ballad 'The spring returns the pewet screams'

I expect lots of folk know it, but I only discovered this Mary Joyce poem recently - as is often the case with a poet as prolific as Clare.  Must admit that it would have been in our "In the Shadows" Signed/Numbered Handmade Limited Edition book if we had encountered it sooner.  The book tells the story, in Clare's own words, of his largely illusory relationship with Mary.  I still have a few copies of the book should anyone want to acquire one.

The spring returns the pewet screams 


Loud welcomes to the dawning 


Though harsh & ill as now it seems 


Twas music last may morning 


The grass so green—the daisy gay 


Wakes no joy in my bosom 


Although the garland last mayday 


Wore not a finer blossom 


For by this bridge my Mary sat 


& praised the screaming plover 


As first to hail the day—when I 


Confessed myself her lover 


& at that moment stooping down 


I pluckt a daisy blossom 


Which smilingly she called her own 


May garland for her bosom 


& in her breast she hid it there 


As true loves happy omen 


Gold had not claimed a safer care 


I thought loves name was woman 


I claimed a kiss she laughed away 


I sweetly sold the blossom 


I thought myself a king that day 


My throne was beautys bosom 


& little thought an evil hour 


Was bringing clouds around me 


& least of all that little flower 


Would turn a thorn to wound me— 


She showed me after many days 


Though withered—how she prized it 


& then she leaned to wealthy praise 


& my poor love despised it 


Aloud the whirring pewet screams 


The daisy blooms as gaily 


But where is Mary—absence seems 


To ask that question daily 


No where on earth where joy can be 


To glad me with her pleasure 


Another name she owns—to me 


She is as stolen treasure 


When lovers part—the longest mile 


Leaves hope of some returning 


Though mines close bye—no hope the while 


Within my heart is burning 


One hour would bring me to her door 


Yet sad & lonely hearted 


If seas between us both should roar 


We were not further parted 


Though I could reach her with my hand 


Ere suns the earth goes under 


Her heart from mine—the sea & land 


Are not more far asunder 


The wind & clouds now here now there 


Hold not such strange dominion 


As womans cold perverted will 


& soon estranged opinion 


MP IV 34

Ann hath a way

Clare's copy of Shakespeare's works (1825) contains lines pretended to be from the pen of the poet to his wife, Anne Hathaway.  The book is further inscribed in Clare's hand 'John Clare / His Book / Novr 15. 1827'

The lines are in Clare's handwriting could well be of his own composition, for we know that he had imitated several of the early poets.  There has been much speculation over the years, but no-one is any further forward as far as I know, to proving or disproving Clare's authorship.  Very interesting...

Would ye be taught, ye feathered throng,   

With love’s sweet notes to grace your song,

To perce the heart with thrilling lay,        

Listen to mine Ann Hathaway!               

She hath a way to sing so clear,               

Phoebus might wondering stop to hear.      

To melt the sad, make blythe the gay,       

& nature charm, Ann hath a way.          

        She hath a way,                             

        Ann Hathaway                          

To breathe delight Ann hath a way!          

                                                          

When envy’s breath and rancorous tooth,   

Do soil & bite fair worth & truth,         

& merit to distress betray—                    

To soothe the heart, Anne hath a way—         

She hath a way to chace despair,               

To heal all grief, to cure all care—               

Turn foulest night, to fairest day—                

Thou know’st fond heart Ann hath a way—            

        She hath a way                           

        Ann Hathaway                           

To make grief bliss Ann hath a way.       

                                                          

Talk not of gems, the orient list,              

The diamond, topaze, amethist,                

The emerald mild, the ruby gay,             

Talk of my gem, Ann Hathaway          

She hath a way with her bright eye,         

Their various colours to defye—                

The jewel she & the foil they,             

So sweet to look, Ann hath a way,          

        She hath a way                              

        Ann Hathaway                             
To shame bright eyes Anne hath a way!

Published in 'Northamptonshire Natural History Society & Field Club' 

Vol XXV - No 199 - September 1929

MP II 345

Winter Walk

The holly bush a sober lump of green
Shines through the leafless shrubs all brown & grey

& smiles at winter, be it e'er so keen
With all the leafy luxury of may
& o it is delicious when the day
In winters loaded garment keenly blows
& turns her back on sudden falling snows
To go where gravel pathways creep between
Arches of ever green that scarce let through
A single feather of the driven snow
& in the bitterest day that ever blew
The walk will find some places still & warm
Where dead leaves rustle sweet & give alarm
To little birds that flirt & start away

Northborough Sonnets

Carcenet (1995)

Brilliant book incidentally !