Analysis of Remembrances

John Clare 1793 (Helpston) – 1864 (St Andrew's Hospital)



Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every one
And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on
I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone
Far away from heart and eye and for ever far away
Dear heart and can it be that such raptures meet decay
I thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I lay
I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout and play
On its bank at 'clink and bandy' 'chock' and 'taw' and
ducking stone
Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her own
Like a ruin of the past all alone

When I used to lie and sing by old eastwells boiling spring
When I used to tie the willow boughs together for a 'swing'
And fish with crooked pins and thread and never catch a
thing
With heart just like a feather- now as heavy as a stone
When beneath old lea close oak I the bottom branches broke
To make our harvest cart like so many working folk
And then to cut a straw at the brook to have a soak
O I never dreamed of parting or that trouble had a sting
Or that pleasures like a flock of birds would ever take to
wing
Leaving nothing but a little naked spring

When jumping time away on old cross berry way
And eating awes like sugar plumbs ere they had lost the may
And skipping like a leveret before the peep of day
On the rolly polly up and downs of pleasant swordy well
When in round oaks narrow lane as the south got black again
We sought the hollow ash that was shelter from the rain
With our pockets full of peas we had stolen from the grain
How delicious was the dinner time on such a showry day
O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away
The ancient pulpit trees and the play

When for school oer 'little field' with its brook and wooden
brig
Where I swaggered like a man though I was not half so big
While I held my little plough though twas but a willow twig
And drove my team along made of nothing but a name
'Gee hep' and 'hoit' and 'woi'- O I never call to mind
These pleasant names of places but I leave a sigh behind
While I see the little mouldywharps hang sweeing to the wind
On the only aged willow that in all the field remains
And nature hides her face where theyre sweeing in their
chains
And in a silent murmuring complains

Here was commons for the hills where they seek for
freedom still
Though every commons gone and though traps are set to kill
The little homeless miners- O it turns my bosom chill
When I think of old 'sneap green' puddocks nook and hilly
snow
Where bramble bushes grew and the daisy gemmed in dew
And the hills of silken grass like to cushions to the view
When we threw the pissmire crumbs when we's nothing
else to do
All leveled like a desert by the never weary plough
All vanished like the sun where that cloud is passing now
All settled here for ever on its brow

I never thought that joys would run away from boys
Or that boys would change their minds and forsake such
summer joys
But alack I never dreamed that the world had other toys
To petrify first feelings like the fable into stone
Till I found the pleasure past and a winter come at last
Then the fields were sudden bare and the sky got overcast
And boyhoods pleasing haunts like a blossom in the blast
Was shrivelled to a withered weed and trampled down and
done
Till vanished was the morning spring and set that summer
sun
And winter fought her battle strife and won

By Langley bush I roam but the bush hath left its hill
On cowper green I stray tis a desert strange and chill
And spreading lea close oak ere decay had penned its will
To the axe of the spoiler and self interest fell a prey
And cross berry way and old round oaks narrow lane
With its hollow trees like pulpits I shall never see again
Inclosure like a Buonaparte let not a thing remain
It levelled every bush and tree and levelled every hill
And hung the moles for traitors - though the brook is
running still
It runs a naked brook cold and chill

O had I known as then joy had left the paths of men
I had watched her night and day besure and never slept agen
And when she turned to go O I'd caught her mantle then
And wooed her like a lover by my lonely side to stay
Aye knelt and worshipped on as love in beautys bower
And clung upon her smiles as a bee upon her flower
And gave her heart my poesys all cropt in a sunny hour
As keepsakes and pledges to fade away
But love never heeded to treasure up the may
So it went the comon road with decay.


Scheme AXXBBBBCDDD EEXEDFFFEGEE BBBXHIIBBB AJJJXKKKLXLL XMMMXXGGEGNNN OXOODPPPCAQAA MMMBIHIMXMM HAHBQQQBBB
Poetic Form
Metre 101011111101001 001011100110101 11111111111 10111010110101 110111111101 11110101110111 11110101111101 111110101010 101 110111011101 1010101101 1111101111101 11111011010101 0111010101010 1 11110101110101 10111111010101 11101011110101 0111011011101 111011101110101 11101011111011 1 10101010101 110101111101 01011101111101 010101010111 10101010111011 10111011011101 1101011110101 110101111110101 10101010111011 1111011111101 010101001 1111101111010 1 1111011111111 1111101111011 0111011110101 1101011110111 11011101110101 111010111101 1010111010101 01010111101 1 0001010001 11101011111 101 11001010111111 01010101111101 111111111010 1 1101010010101 00111011110101 1110111110 111 11010101010101 1101011111101 1101110111 110111110111 11111110011 101 1111011011101 1101101010011 11101010010111 1010101001110 011011010001 111010101010 1 1101010101110 1 0101010101 1101111011111 1101111010101 0101111011111 10110100110101 011010111101 111011101110101 010101110101 1101001010101001 01011101011 101 110101101 1111111110111 1110101101011 0111111110101 01010101110111 110101110110 01010110101010 01011111001010 110101101 111010110101 111011101
Closest metre Iambic hexameter
Characters 4,291
Words 867
Sentences 2
Stanzas 8
Stanza Lengths 11, 12, 10, 12, 13, 13, 11, 10
Lines Amount 92
Letters per line (avg) 38
Words per line (avg) 9
Letters per stanza (avg) 436
Words per stanza (avg) 108
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Submitted on May 13, 2011

Modified on May 03, 2023

4:21 min read
476

John Clare

John Clare was an English poet in his time he was commonly known as the Northamptonshire Peasant Poet more…

All John Clare poems | John Clare Books

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