The poem
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 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, Until he's called to claim it in the skies.
One of the things I enjoy most about John Clare's poetry is that it's never too soupy. Some other poems are so random and pointless that that is the only reason why they pass for "poetry." I enjoy John Clare's poetry because you can understand it easily.
as opposed to Wordsworth, the poetry of Jonh Clare is relatively straightforward and so, extremely refreshing to read. I also like the 'open field' style of his poetry.
Correct me if I'm wrong, but is Mr. John Clare trying to say that life is too short to go wasting it? That we deny how short life truly is, so we end up doing nothing, and sit around until we die?