John Clare Weblog

SONG: The bird cherrys white in the dews o' the morning

The bird cherrys white in the dews o' the morning

The wildings are blushing along the hedgeside
The gold blossomed furze the wild heaths are adorning
& the brook in the hollow runs light by my side
But where is the charmer the voice of the maiden
Whose presence once charmed me the whole summers day
The bushes wi' gold & wi' silver oerlaiden
Looks cold i' the morning when Phebe's away

The sun rises bright oer the oaks in the spinney
Bringing gold unto gold on the winbushes there
Blossoming bright as a new minted guinea
& moist wi' the mist of the morns dewy air
The flower is bowed down & I let the tired Bee be
All wet wi' night dew & unable to flye
Such a kindness in me would be pleasure to Phebe
A poor trampled Insect would cause her to sigh

The white thorn is coming wi' bunches of blossoms
The broad sheets of daiseys spread out on the lea
The bunches of cowslips spread out their gold bosoms
While the oak balls appear on the old spinney tree

Come forward my Phebe wi' dews of the morning
By the old crooked brook let thy early walk be
Where the brambles arched stalks—glossy leaves are adorning
& bits o' woo' hang on the bark o' the tree

Come forward my Phebe by times in the morning
Come forward my Phebe in blebs o' the dew
They bead the young cowslip like pearls i' the dawning
& we'll mark the young shower where the green linnet flew
I'll court thee & woo thee from morning to e'ening
Where the primrose looks bright in the ivy's dark green
& the oak oer the brook in its white bark is leaning
There let me & Phebe wi' morning be seen

The Oxford Authors: John Clare,

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell (Oxford, 1984)

Song, from Child Harold

[Image : A Corner of the Oasis - Carry Akroyd]

No single hour can stand for nought

No moment hand can move
But calenders a aching thought
Of my first lonely love

Where silence doth the loudest call
My secrets to betray
As moonlight holds the night in thrall
As suns reveal the day

I hide it in the silent shades
Till silence finds a tongue
I make its grave where time invades
Till time becomes a song

I bid my foolish heart be still
But hopes will not be chid
My heart will beat—& burn—& chill
First love will not be hid

When summer ceases to be green
& winter bare & blea—
Death may forget what I have been
But I must cease to be

When words refuse before the crowd
My Marys name to give
The muse in silence sings aloud
& there my love will live

Child Harold (lines 493-516)

The Poems of John Clare,

ed. J. W. Tibble (2 volumes, Dent, 1935)

Summers in its glory now

Summer's in its glory now Sweet the flower and green the bough

Dry is every swamp and slough My own kind deary

Could I press thy bonny bosom Swelling like a bursting blossom
Sweetly ripe as I suppose 'em Then heaven would be near thee

Fair and buxsome bonny Lassie Let us seek for places grassy
Where the brook it dimples glassy There I'll love thee deary

On thy lilly bosom leaning View thy eyes to guess their meaning
Kiss where not a look has been in Thy lilly bosom deary

Clasp thee round thy gimpsy middle Playing loves tunes without the fiddle
And loves secret joys unriddle To kiss and cheer me

To throw my arms about thy shoulders And in the band O' love enfold us
I' these green shades where none behold us Where heaven would be near thee

Come my blyth and bonny deary Let me clasp thee and lie near thee
And I of love shall ne'er be weary To clasp my bonny deary

To kiss thy cheeks O' new blown roses Thy breasts where hills O' alpine snow's is
As sweet as ever love supposes To glad and cheer me

About thy bonny arms I'll clasp thee And i' the vice o' fondness grasp thee
Till matrimony's charms shall hasp thee And bind thee aye my deary

The Later Poems of John Clare,

ed. Eric Robinson and Geoffrey Summerfield

(Manchester University Press, 1964)

Sorrow is felt not seen...

Sorrow is felt not seen—the grief of verse

Is writ by those who share not in our pain
The pawl embrodered & the sable hearse
Are symbols not of sorrow but of gain
What of the scutcheoned hearse & pawl remain
When all is past—there sorrow is no more
Sorrows heart aches—& burning scars will stain
As morning dews—as april showers is oer
Some tears fall on their graves again

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1984)

Infant Grave

Beneath the Sod where smiling creeps

The daisy into view
The Ashes of an Infant sleeps
Whose soul's as smiling too
— Ah doubly happy — doubly blest —
Had I so happy been
Recall'd to heavens eternal rest
Ere it knew how to sin
Thrice happy Infant great the bliss
Alone reserv'd for thee
Such joy — twas my sad fate to miss
& thy good luck to see

For Oh when all must rise again
To have their sentence gave
What crowds will wish with me in vain
They'd fill'd an Infants Grave

John Clare, Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)

'Revisiting the Helpston grave of John Clare' by Charles Causley

[It is very rare for me to post anything but poems by John Clare to this weblog... but in Charles Causley we encounter a poet with a love of Clare and his work. Here is his poem 'Revisiting the Helpston grave of John Clare ']

Hills sank like green fleets on the land's long rim

About the village of toast-coloured stone.
Leaving the car beside the Blue Bell, we
Walked with a clutch of flowers the clear lane
Towards the grave.

It was well combed, and quiet as before.
An upturned stone boat
Beached at God's thick door.
Only the water in the spiked grave-pot
Smelt sourly of death.
Yet no wind seemed to blow
From off the fen or sea
The flowers flickered in the painted pot
Like green antennae,
As though John Clare from a sounding skull
Brim with a hundred years of dirt and stone
Signalled to us;
And light suddenly breathed
Over the plain.

Later, drinking whisky in The Bull at Peterborough,
The face of the poet
Lying out on the rigid plain
Stared at me
As clearly as it once stared through
The glass coffin-lid
In the church-side pub on his burial day:
Head visible, to prove
The bulging brain was not taken away
By surgeons, digging through the bone and hair
As if to find poems still
Beating there;
Then, like an anchor, to be lowered fast
Out of creation's pain, the stropping wind,
Deep out of sight, into the world's mind.

Charles Causley

I'd Gaze my Soul on Thee

I wish I was the wild woodbine

Twining round the white thorn bough
I wish I was the wild hedge rose
Upon thy bonny bosom now
To feel thy thumb and finger nip
About my twisted stem
The flowers now toutch thy ruby lip
To kiss their mornings gem

My flowers would kiss those lips o' thine
That kiss'd the dewdrops made divine

I wish I was what I am not
The wild flower nodding on the Lea
To win thy notice on the spot
And touch thy bosom fond and free
To touch thy bosom lily white
To kiss thy shoulders marble bright
And in thy bosom dwell
To be thy hearts one whole delight
In thought and sense as well

My hearts one love could I but be
A flower I'd gaze my soul on thee

The Later Poems of John Clare,

ed. Eric Robinson and Geoffrey Summerfield

(Manchester University Press, 1964)

Ballad: "Ive often had hours..."

Ive often had hours to be meeting the lasses

& wisht that the sun in his setting coud stay
& old creeping time a doz'd over his glasses
& make lovers hours at least long as a day

But when at the even loves presence were greeting
Swift as the race horse time seems to spur bye
& when lovers part till the next hour of meeting
As slow as a snail creeps the lagging hours dye

& Ive been wi many as fair as thee Mary
& Ive kissd full many a cheek red as thine
& round as soft bosoms in dresses as airy
My arm did full often enrapturd entwine

But never o never such 'lectrified feeling
Ere throbd thro my heart be as fair as they be
When round thy sweet charms my embraces was stealing
My soul stood spectator in presence of thee

The mould of an angel gave birth to thee Mary
& all reason startld away from thy charms
My senses mixd vapour in summer gales airy
& thou seemd imortal when rapt in my arms

& Ive met wi blisses & crosses contrary
But that happy moment that blest me wi thee
That heaven crownd swoonings unrivald my Mary
Nor can hell be worse then that parting wi thee

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822,

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

The Courtship (excerpt)

A woman’s is the dearest love

There’s nought on earth sincerer

The leisure upon beauty’s breast

Can any thing be dearer?

The muses they are living things

& beauty ever dear

& though I worshipped stocks & stones

T’was woman every-where

In loves delight my steps was led

I sung of beauty’s choice

I saw her in the books I read

& all was Mary Joyce

I saw her love in beauty’s face

I saw her in the rose

I saw her in the fairest flowers

In every weed that grows

Poems of John Clare's Madness,

ed. Geoffrey Grigson (RKP, 1949)

Summer Evening (excerpt)

From the hay-cock's moisten'd heaps,

Startled frogs take vaunting leaps;

And along the shaven mead,

Jumping travellers, they proceed :

Quick the dewy grass divides.

Moistening sweet their speckled sides ;

From the grass or flowret's cup,

Quick the dew-drop bounces up.

Now the blue fog creeps along.

And the bird's forgot his song :

Flowers now sleep within their hoods ;

Daisies button into buds ;

From soiling dew the butter-cup

Shuts his golden jewels up.

Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)

Sports of the Village (Song)

Yesterday night I drest up for the dancing

& vowd for a sweet heart if so it coud be
& no sooner there but a wench fell a glancing
Her eye in loves language: ‘Im waiting for thee’
What shoud I do but I ‘quires are ye willing
To go down a dance a few minutes wi me
Be sure ont she were so I outs wi my shilling
& stopt the old scraper to pay him his fee

Then stampt the foot of the scraper to warn us
& off wi the fiddle as pleasd as coud be
I fudgd to the end of the dance were in corners
I often snatchd kisses when no one coud see
I thought how I knackt it & sweet was the beagle
All but what I ought to have ta’en her to be
Tho her black eye as brazen & bold as the eagle
Oft glanced [in] loves language to more beside me

She left me at morn & went home wi another
The sigh was sold cheaply I left wi her then
But curse on her deepness love lightly might bother
I neer dreampt on troubles Id fall in agen
I went to the feast & the beagle there met me
The gleg of her eye was as keen as before
& tryd but as usual all trappings to get me
But I swore to my sen Id be fooléd no more

& what did she do but she vowd she’d expose me
& gun say Id playd her the follies of youth
& taking in tear drops be’slubberd her bosom
Till folks they were foold to believe it the truth
My case to be’sure it got mighty alarming
Twas provd I had bin wi the bitch by the bye
But as to the deed of her innosence harming
The king on his throne wornt less guilty then I

& she told her griefs in a many sad ditty

& she threatnd poison as wishing to dye
Till old women out wi their snuff rags in pity
To stop the false teardrops that blinkt in her eye
Ah curse on the night I ere gangd to the dancing
The parish hounds forcd the bad bargain on me
Ive payd dear enuff for the hisseys eye glancing
& provd a fools take in I then coudnt see

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822,

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

Coy Maidens (excerpt)

Her voice shouted Rodger, like throwing a stone

So give up old Soldier and let her alone

Go away with ye Rodger young Man do I see

If you're an old Soldier you may march on with me.

I went with the maiden over heath and o'er plain

And when Sunday was come too, I saw her again

I saw her, and courted the sun from the West

And left my last kiss on the mole of her breast.

I kissed, and we’re married, and bedded and all

And the old Kirk at Upton the green wedding saw

For the grass it was green and our years was the same

And from morning to Evening none called us to blame

(lines 7-8, 11-20)

The Later Poems of John Clare 1837-1864,

ed. Eric Robinson and David Powell

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1984)

Three pieces of advice... by Clare

A Ploughmans skill at Classification after the Lineian arrangement

‘Go wipe your shoes’ says mistress shrew
To Hodge who up for's dinner drew
‘'Tis'n't fitting that such hogs as you
‘Shou'd come into a house’
‘Why not’ says hodge—‘if thats the case
‘I cant come in a better place
‘For surely there is no disgrace

For hogs to herd wi' Sows

Friend take my advice...

Friend take my advice would you do yourself good,

& get your house custom & peace?

Take down from that doorpost the billet of Wood

& hang up your Wife in its place.

A Simile

A mushroom, its goodness but shortly endures

Decaying as soon as its peeping —

Woman much like them — for its known very Well

That they seldom get better by keeping.

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822,

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

Sweet are the blossoms...

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

The vally’s wild lily where wood channels wimple
Neath the rude hazels low blooming unseen
They are thy beauty so artless so simple
Their hue thy two white breasts love bedded between

The warm streaked woodbine that decks the lanes bushes
The soft smelling rose the heaths brambles adorn
These are the paint of thy cheeks maiden blushes
& modesty’s guardians expressed in the thorn

Alas my sweet Mary but mem'ry alarming
Soon starts at lost moments when once we did meet
When I prest that soft bosom so white & so warming
& kissd thy cheeks freshness so lushious & sweet

Soon then from flowers is thy image extinguishd
Still pleasures past sting my soul as before
As I turn to that hour when our bliss was relinquishd
That hour when I left thee to meet thee no more

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822,

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

The Wish

And now a garden planned with nicest care

Should be my next attention to prepare;
For this I'd search the soil of different grounds
Nor small nor great should mark its homely bounds:

Between these two extremes the plan should be
Complete throughout and large enough for me.

A strong brick wall should bound the outward fence
Where by the suns all cheering influence

Walltrees should flourish in a spreading row
And Peach and Pear in ruddy lustre glow.
A five foot bed should follow from the wall
To look complete or save the trees withal

On which small seeds for sallading I'd sow
While curl-leaf Parsley should for edges grow.
My Garden in four quarters I'd divide
To show good taste and not a gaudy pride;

In this the middle walk should be the best.

Being more to sight exposed than [all] the rest.

The woodbine tree should all her sweets unfurl
Close to my door in many a wanton curl.

Aside my wall the vine should find a place
While damask roses did my window grace:
And now a walk as was the plan before
Exactly corresponding with the door
Should lead my footsteps to another bower
Whenever leisure gave the pleasant hour.

(Lines 104-164)

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822,

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

Song: I peeled bit o straws..."

I peeled bits o straws and I got switches too
From the grey peeling willow as idlers do
And 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.

Crowded places I shunned them as noises too rude
And flew to the silence of sweet solitude;

Where the flower in green darkness, buds, blossoms & fades
Unseen of a shepherds & flower loving maids

The hermit bees find them but once & away
There I'll burry alive & in silence decay

I looked on the eyes of fair woman too long
Till silence and shame stole the use of my tongue
When I tried to speak to her I’d nothing to say
So I turned myself round & she wandered away;

When she got too far off—why Id. something to tell
So I sent sighs behind her & talked to my sell.

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.

John Clare, Selected Poems,

ed. Elaine Feinstein (1968)

Content

I'm silverless, and pennyless

I've no small coin about me
And yet I'm not in wants distress
The rich may live without me

Though money makes the married glad

And finds the single nappy
Yet wanting wealth—I'm never sad
While health can make me happy

For health's the flower of mountains pride
The lily of the valley
The red rose by the cottage side
While sickness keeps the alley

In poverty there is no shame
Industry's not the slave on't
And self-content's a happy name
So I whistle o'er the leave on't

I'm silverless, and pennyless
And poor enough God knows
Yet in no pinfold of distress
While I get food and clothes

The heart that keeps its own command
Of little makes the more
Content—and all may understand
I've no wishes from my door

John Clare, Selected Poems,

ed. J.W. and Anne Tibble (Everyman, 1965)

Song

Mary Appleby

I look upon the hedge row flower

I gaze upon the hedge-row tree
I walk alone the silent hour
And think of Mary Appleby
I see her in the brimming streams
I see her in the blooming hour
I hear her in the summer dreams
Of singing bird, and blooming flower

For Mary is the dearest bird
And Mary is the sweetest flower
That in spring bush was ever heard
That ever bloomed on bank or bower
O bonny Mary Appleby

J.L. Cherry, Life and Remains of John Clare

(London and Northampton: Frederick Warne and J. Taylor and Son, 1873)

The Gipsies Evening Blaze

To me how wildly pleasing is that scene

Which does present in evenings dusky hour
A Group of Gipsies center'd on the green
In some warm nook where Boreas has no power
Where sudden starts the quivering blaze behind
Short shrubby bushes nibbl'd by the sheep
That alway on these shortsward pastures keep
Now lost now shines now bending with the wind
And now the swarthy sybil kneels reclin'd
With proggling stick she still renews the blaze
Forcing bright sparks to twinkle from the flaze
When this I view the all attentive mind
Will oft exclaim (so strong the scene prevades)
‘Grant me this life, thou spirit of the shades!’

Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery (1820)

Summers in its Glory Now