Fallen friends


I hate to see mans strength employ’d

To desolate the wood
To see a favourite tree destroy’d
That has for ages stood
To see the stript oak stretch’d its length
A mournful thought the scene attends
Those seem thats left still green in strength
To mourn their fallen friends

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Sophia


On the 24th July 1830 Sophia was born to Patty and John - the family then consisted then of 6 children, Anna (10), Eliza (8 ), Freddy (6) John (4), William (2), and baby Sophia. Grandfather Parker (70) and Ann (66) made up the crowded household of 10 all living in the tenement in Woodgate (a quarter of what is now called ‘Clare Cottage’). What a struggle it must have been, seeking to support such a family.

When with our little ones we spent
Each Sunday after tea,
& up the woods dark side we went
Or pastures rushy lea
To look among the woodland boughs
To find the birds retreat
Or crop the cowslip for the cows
Then sat to rest the little feet
In many a pleasant place
& see the lambs who tried to bleat
Come first in every race
Then laughd the childrens joys to view
Who ran across the lea
At birds that from the rushes flew
& many a wandering bee

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The daisy button


The daisy button tipped wi' dew 
     Green like the grass was sleeping
On every thing 'neath heaven blue 
     In moonlight dew was weeping
In dark wood sung the Nightingale 
     The moon shone round above me
My arms were clasped round Mary Gale 
     My dearest do you love me
Her head a woodbine wet wi' dew 
     Held in the moonlight sleeping
& two in one together grew 
     Wi' daisy buds a weeping
O' Mary Gale sweet Mary Gale 
     How round and bright above thee
The moon looks down on grassy vale 
     My dearest can you love me
How sweet the moonlight sleeps and still 
     Firdale & hedge row brere
The mole wharps mound & distant hill 
     Is moonlight every where
The totter grasses pendalums 
     Are still as night above me
The bees are gone and nothing hums 
     My dearest do you love me
The moonlight sleeps o'er wood & wall 
     Sweet Mary While you'r nigh me
Can any charm O' courtship fail 
     & any joy pass by me
The gossamer all wet wi' dew 
     Hung on the brere above me
She leaned her cheek & said ‘I do’ 
     & ever mean to love thee

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A green wood side


I wandered down a green wood side

On Sunday noon in spring
Where little birds their dwellings hide
& Thrushes sweetly sing
The moss so green round Hazel roots
The Primrose by its side
That in its brimstone livery shoots
In bunches far and wide

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My illness was love


I peeled bits o straws & I got switches too
From the grey peeling willow as idlers do
& I switched at the flies as I sat all alone
Till my flesh blood & marrow wasted to the dry bone
My illness was love though I knew not the smart
But the beauty o love was the blood o my heart

Willow switches I broke & I peeled bits o straws
Ever lonely in crowds in natures own laws
My ballroom the pasture my music the bees
My drink was the fountain my church the tall trees
Whoever would love or be tied to a wife
When it makes a man mad all the days of his life

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The summer adorning


Sweet are the blossoms the summer adorning

Shed in profusion oer meadow & lea
Deckt wi the charms of the dew bedded morning
Ere the suns spangles dry blossom & tree

While as I wander by wood bank & fountain
Hushing my sorrows wi moments decline
Many selections of blossoms I’m counting
To trace in their beauty some likeness of thine

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Keep their sabbaths


The shepherds & the herding swains
Keep their sabbaths on the plains
For them the church bells vainly call
Fields are their church & house & all
Theyll lie & catch the passing sound
That comes from steeples shining round
Enjoying in the service time
The happy bells delightful chime
& if they sit on rising ground,
To view the landscape spreading round

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Sweet the fragrance


A beanfield full in blossom smells as sweet

As Araby or groves of orange flowers
Black-eyed & white & feathered to ones feet
How sweet they smell in mornings dewy hours
When seething night is left upon the flowers
& when morns sun shines brightly oer the field
The bean bloom glitters in the gems of showers
& sweet the fragrance which the union yields
To battered footpaths crossing oer the fields

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Refuse of Nature


Long my dear valleys long long may ye flourish

Though rush-beds & thistles make most of your pride
May showers never fail the greens daisies to nourish
Nor suns dry the fountain that rills by its side
Your skies may be gloomy & misty your mornings
Your flat swampy valleys unwholesome may be
Still refuse of Nature without her adornings
Ye are dear as this heart in my bosom to me

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Weeds of all sorts


The partridge whirs up frit away from her nest 
& the hare with the morning dew yet on her breast 
Jumps away from his hustle & bustle & noise 
Which he makes in the midst of his rapture & joys
Now singing & tearing up weeds of all sorts 
Showy corn poppys shining like foxhunters coats 
& bluecaps & cockleflowers no matter what 
To make a gay garland to stick in his hat 
& now he struts out what a gesture he wears 
As proud of his colours as soldiers of 

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Droning bee


When it comes a summer shower
It still will go from flower to flower
Then underneath the rushes—
It sees the silver daisy flower
& there it spends a little hour
Then hides among the bushes
But whence they come from where they go
None but the wiser schoolboy's know

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The gay flowret


As oer the gay pasture went rocking a clown 
A gay gaudy buttercups gold fringed gown 
Engaged his attention as passing her bye 
& rudly to gain her he stooped adown 
Its beauty so dazzld his eye 

By outside appearance the sensless are caught 
& beautys gay triumph is foolish & short 
With nothing to gain the attention beside 
Possession soon sickens—& fleet as a thought 
Beauty slips us forgotten aside 

As snufting & snufting the clodhopper goes 
& finding no sweetness for charming his nose 
Frail beauties delusion soon wearied his eye 
& away the gay flowret he heedlessly throws 
To wither unnotis'd & dye

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Butterflye


Then thy starry gems & gold
Admiration would unfold
For what insect is't can vie
With the lovley Butterflye
Lo! the arching heav'nly bow
Does all his dyes on thee bestow
Crimson Blue & watry Green
Mixd with Azure shade between
These are thine—thou first in place
Queen of all the insect race

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Freedoms throne


Ive loved thy being from a boy
The highland hills was once my joy
Then morning mists did round them lie
Like sunshine in the happiest sky
Her hills & valleys seemed my own
When our land was freedoms throne
Her fruitful vales her mountain thrones
Are ruled by natures laws alone

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Fame


Fame blazed upon me like a comets glare

Fame waned & left me like a fallen star
Because I told the evil what they are
& truth & falshood never wished to mar
My Life hath been a wreck — & I've gone far
For peace & truth — & hope — for home & rest
— Like Edens gates — fate throws a constant bar —
Thoughts may o'ertake the sunset in the west
— Man meets no home within a womans breast

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Hopeless Agony & Hell


My Mind Is Dark & Fathomless & Wears

The Hues Of Hopeless Agony & Hell

No Plummet Ever Sounds The Souls Affairs

There Death Eternal Never Sounds The Knell

There Love Imprisoned Sighs The Long Farewell

& Still May Sigh In Thoughts No Heart Hath Penned

Alone In Loneliness Where Sorrows Dwell

& Hopeless Hope Hopes On & Meets No End

Wastes Without Springs & Homes Without A Friend


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Charming Mary


Mary mary charming mary

Now the sun has sunk to rest
& the even breeze so airy
Tries to bare thy snowy breast
How I love wi thee to wander
Mary o how sweet wi thee
Dusky meadows to meander
Where no soul can hear or see


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Child Harold


Another tragic poem from Clare's 'Child Harold', written in the autumn of 1841 when Clare was back in Northborough and vainly seeking Mary Joyce.  My Chapbook 'Child Harold' is the only published book with all of Clare's poems under that title.  Nearly all written in the year of two asylums, 1841.

Available from me this weekend at the Festival of course.

Song


I think of thee at early day

& wonder where my love can be

& when the evening shadows grey

O how I think of thee

Along the meadow banks I rove

& down the flaggy fen

& hope my first & early love

To meet thee once agen


I think of thee at dewy morn

& at the sunny noon

& walks with thee—now left forlorn

Beneath the silent moon

I think of thee I think of all

How blest we both have been—

The sun looks pale upon the wall

& autumn shuts the scene


I can't expect to meet thee now

The winter floods begin

The wind sighs through the naked bough

Sad as my heart within

I think of thee the seasons through

In spring when flowers I see

In winters lorn & naked view

I think of only thee


While life breaths on this earthly ball

What e'er my lot may be

Wether in freedom or in thrall

Mary I think of thee


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Hidden Treasures


A little excerpt from 'Hidden Treasures' available from me this weekend at the Festival. Its contents cannnot be found in any other Clare publications.  They are the fruit of many hours research in the Clare Archives.

Have a go at transcribing Clare’s handwriting from the photo above...

I often felt my lowly lot

As couzin unto thine

& oft thy nameless sprigs have got

To wish it well with mine

When trodden down where cuddys went

Ive propt thee up agen

& tyed thee with a propping bent

Like worthless scorning men

When moles their new hills threw about

& hid thy flowers from day

Ive stooped to get my couzin out

& bared the moulds away

& know I meet thee still the same

Supprise grows warm agen

Thou little friend with out a name

Behind the hills as then

Thy little chickweed gently flowers

& out of every wind

While cows & sheep all blooms devours

They [s]till leave thee behind


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