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
| Classic Poems |
|
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