A late Clare poem written whilst he was in the Northampton asylum from which he was never released.
Poets love nature & themselves are love
The scorn of fools & mock of idle pride
The vile in nature worthless deeds approve
They court the vile & spurn all good beside
Poets love nature like the calm of heaven
Her gifts like heavens love spread far & wide
In all her works there are no signs of leaven
Sorrow abashes from her simple pride
Her flowers like pleasures have their seasons birth
& bloom through region[s] here below
They are her very scriptures upon earth
& teach us simple mirth where e'er we go
Even in prison they can solace me
For where they bloom God is & I am free
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