The Instinct Of Hope

John Clare

Is there another world for this frail dust
To warm with life and be itself again?
Something about me daily speaks there must,
And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?
’Tis nature’s prophesy that such will be,
And everything seems struggling to explain
The close sealed volume of its mystery.
Time wandering onward keeps its usual pace
As seeming anxious of eternity,
To meet that calm and find a resting place.
E’en the small violet feels a future power
And waits each year renewing blooms to bring,
And surely man is no inferior flower
To die unworthy of a second spring?

Next 10 Poems

• John Clare : The Landrail
• John Clare : The Maple Tree
• John Clare : The Mores
• John Clare : The Nightingale's Nest
• John Clare : The Shepherd's Tree
• John Clare : The Skylark
• John Clare : The Thrush's Nest
• John Clare : The Vixen
• John Clare : The Winter's Spring
• John Clare : To A Fallen Elm

Previous 10 Poems

• John Clare : The Flood
• John Clare : The Dying Child
• John Clare : The Cuckoo
• John Clare : Summer Images
• John Clare : Summer Evening
• John Clare : Summer
• John Clare : Song's Eternity
• John Clare : Remembrances
• John Clare : November
• John Clare : May