“the common fate of all: / Into each life some rain must fall, / Some days must be dark and dreary”

[larryhammer]

For Poetry Monday:

Sheep in Winter, John Clare

The sheep get up and make their many tracks
And bear a load of snow upon their backs,
And gnaw the frozen turnip to the ground
With sharp quick bite, and then go noising round
The boy that pecks the turnips all the day
And knocks his hands to keep the cold away
And laps his legs in straw to keep them warm
And hides behind the hedges from the storm.
The sheep, as tame as dogs, go where he goes
And try to shake their fleeces from the snows,
Then leave their frozen meal and wander round
The stubble stack that stands beside the ground,
And lie all night and face the drizzling storm
And shun the hovel where they might be warm.


Clare (1793-1864) was a farm laborer who attempted to relieve his poverty by publishing poetry, but despite minor success his mental health suffered to the point that he had delusions that he was Byron, then later that he was Shakespeare. He spent his last 27 years in a mental asylum. This poem is from his fourth and last collection, published in 1835 during a burst of lucidity.

---L.

Subject quote from The Rainy Day, Henry W. Longfellow.

Comments

[cmcmck]

I love John Clare's work and his story is so sad.

[larryhammer]

It is indeed.

[oracne]

Making a living from poetry...I wonder how many poets manage that?

[larryhammer]

In his case, he was more aiming to supplement his income. But in general, even the Name Poets who lived full time on their writing rarely wrote only poetry -- plays, essays, criticism, novels, and other stuff as well. Or nowadays, a teaching position.

[thawrecka]

That is a beautiful poem.

[larryhammer]

Innit?