What is Life?

by John Clare

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.