What is Life
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.
And what is Hope?
The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each flow'ret of its gem -and dies;
A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise.
And what is Death?
Is still the cause unfound?
That dark mysterious name of horrid sound?
A long and lingering sleep the weary crave.
And Peace?
Where can its happiness abound?
Nowhere at all, save heaven and the grave.
Then what is Life?
When stripped of its disguise,
A thing to be desired it cannot be;
Since everything that meets our foolish
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity.'Tis but a trial all must undergo,
To teach unthankful mortals how to
That happiness vain man's denied to know,
Until he's called to claim it in the skies.
John Clare
Other author posts
The Maple Tree
The Maple with its tassell flowers of That turns to red, a stag horn shapèd Just spreading out its scalloped leaves is seen, Of yellowish hue yet beautifully green
The Flood
On Lolham Brigs in wild and lonely moodI've seen the winter floods their gambols Through each old arch that trembled while I Bent o'er its wall to watch the dashing As their old stations would be washed
To John Clare
Well, honest John, how fare you now at home The spring is come, and birds are building nests; The old cock-robin to the sty is come, With olive feathers and its ruddy breast; And the old cock, with wattles and red comb, Struts with the hens, ...
The Secret
oI loved thee, though I told thee not, Right earlily and long, Thou wert my joy in every spot, My theme in every song
