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 Winters Spring
The winter comes; I walk alone, I want no bird to sing; To those who keep their hearts their own The winter is the spring
Clock-O-Clay
In the cowslip pips I lie, Hidden from the buzzing fly, While green grass beneath me lies, Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes,
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 Shepherds Tree
Huge elm, with rifted trunk all notched and scarred, Like to a warrior's destiny I To stretch me often on thy shadowed sward,
