states that Clare was "the greatest labouring-class poet that England has ever produced.
And don't despise your betters cause they're old.
Throw not my words away, as many do;They're gold in value, though they're cheap to you.
And what's more wonderful, when big loads foilOne ant or two to carry, quickly thenA swarm flock round to help their fellow-men.
In politics and politicians' liesThe modern farmer waxes wondrous wise;
When trouble haunts me, need I sigh? No, rather smile away despair;
I hid my love when young till ICouldn't bear the buzzing of a fly;I hid my love to my despiteTill I could not bear to look at light:I dare not gaze upon her faceBut left her memory in each place;Where eer I saw a wild flower lieI kissed and bade my love good bye.
I hid my love in field and townTill een the breeze would knock me down,The bees seemed singing ballads oer,The fly's bass turned a lion's roar;And even silence found a tongue,To haunt me all the summer long;The riddle nature could not proveWas nothing else but secret love.
O how I feel, just as I pluck the flowerAnd stick it to my breast — words can't reveal;But there are souls that in this lovely hourKnow all I mean, and feel whate'er I feel.
This world has suns, but they are overcast;This world has sweets, but they're of ling'ring bloom;Life still expects, and empty falls at last;Warm Hope on tiptoe drops into the tomb.
To-morrow comes, true copy of to-day,And empty shadow of what is to be;Yet cheated Hope on future still depends,And ends but only when our being ends.