Life and Remains of John Clare: The Northamptonshire Peasant Poet

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F. Warne, 1873 - 349 pages
 

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Page 24 - Why, let the stricken deer go weep, The hart ungalled play ; For some must watch, while some must sleep : Thus runs the world away.
Page 125 - Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Page 148 - How cheerful along the gay mead The daisy and cowslip appear ; The flocks as they carelessly feed Rejoice in the Spring of the year.
Page 127 - I AM ! yet what I am none cares or knows, My friends forsake me like a memory lost; I am the self-consumer of my woes...
Page 11 - Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green ; How much thy presence beautifies the ground! How 'sweet thy modest unaft'ected pride Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side! And where thy fairy flowers in groups are found, The schoolboy roams enchantedly along, Plucking the fairest with a rude delight : While the meek shepherd stops his simple song, To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight; O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring The welcome news of sweet returning spring.
Page 28 - Toiling in the naked fields, Where no bush a shelter yields, Needy Labour dithering stands, Beats and blows his numbing hands ; And upon the crumping snows Stamps, in vain, to warm his toes.
Page 179 - He stooped to get a worm, and looked up to catch a fly, And then he flew away ere his feathers they were dry. Little trotty wagtail, he waddled in the mud, And left his little footmarks, trample where he would. He waddled in the water-pudge, and waggle went his tail. And chirrupt up his wings to dry upon the garden rail. Little trotty wagtail, you nimble all about, And in the dimpling water-pudge you waddle in and out; Your home is nigh at hand, and in the warm pigsty, So, little Master Wagtail,...
Page 12 - As frail rose-blossoms still retain Their fragrance when they die. And joy's first dreams will haunt the mind With shades from whence they sprung, As summer leaves the stems behind On which spring's blossoms hung. Mary ! I dare not call thee dear, I've lost that right so long, Yet once again I vex thine ear With memory's idle song. Had time and change not blotted out The love of former days, Thou wert the first that I should doubt Of pleasing with my praise.
Page 27 - And what is Life ? — An hour-glass on the run, A mist, retreating from the morning sun, A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream, — Its length ? — A minute's pause, a moment's thought. And happiness ? — A bubble on the stream, That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.
Page 200 - In the rain still warm and dry; Day and night, and night and day, Red, black-spotted clock-a-clay. My home shakes in wind and showers, Pale green pillar topped with flowers, Bending at the wild wind's breath, Till I touch the grass beneath; Here I live, lone clock-a-clay, Watching for the time of day.

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