Evening

'Tis evening; the black snail has got on his track,
And gone to its nest is the wren,
And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back,
Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.

The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot
Where his shadow reached when he first came,
And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut
Two letters that stand for love's name.

The evening comes in with the wishes of love,
And the shepherd he looks on the flowers,
And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove,
And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.

For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love,
Where nothing can hear or intrude;
It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove,
In beautiful green solitude.

-John Clare

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 moment’s pause, a moment’s thought
And happiness ? A bubble on the stream
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought

Vain hopes—what are they ? Puffing gales of morn
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn
And robs each flowret of its gem and dies
A cobweb hiding disappointments thorn
Which stings more keenly thro’ the thin disguise

And thou, O trouble ? Nothing can suppose,
And sure the Power of Wisdom only knows,
What need requireth thee.
So free and lib’ral as thy bounty flows,
Some necessary cause must surely be.

And what is death ? Is still the cause unfound
The dark mysterious name of horrid sound
A long and ling’ring sleep the weary crave—
And peace—where can its happiness abound ?
No where at all but Heaven and the grave

Then what is Life ? When stript of its disguise
A thing to be desir’d it cannot be
Since every thing that meets our foolish eyes
Gives proof sufficient of its vanity
’Tis but a trial all must undergo
To teach unthankful mortals how to prize
That happiness vain man’s denied to know
Untill he’s call’d to claim it in the skies.

-John Clare