Thursday, January 12, 2012

After NH, you know, I went out for a cone

    Nought seemed too hard for us to do
    But the sums upon our slates;
    Nought seemed too hard for us to win
    But the master's chair of state.
    The "Town of Troy" we tried and made
    When our sums we could not try,
    While we envied e'en the sparrow's wings
    From our prison house to fly.

    When twelve o'clock was counted out
    The joy and strife began,
    The shut of books, the hearty shout
    As out of doors we ran.
    Sunshine and showers who could withstand,
    Our food and rapture they;
    We took our dinner in our hands
    To lose no time to play ..

No one would promise me that our poor Newt would be OK if he didn't win, and that the persecution of the Christians would not go on, as he warns it does. No one would prom-ise me that our darling Mitt would not have to suffer grievously for growing up exempt from guilt, only now to be exhibited for banditry.

Oh, and I know what you're thinking: that this must be some dismal political comment (can you stand it), corrupting the sweet-ness of an honest cone of forget-fulness in Clare with a swoon of his depression. But no, my dears; for are we not, now again, in the midst of that Party of Anguish's umbrage toward the senses we were born with? Is not the highwayman now back, tuh-lot, tuh-lot, to teach us tender truths of his temerity toward our ever being free of pillage, paranoia, and prophets misconstrued? Yes, I went out for a cone, and yes, I lapt it with elation for recess of obliga-tion to their tears.

John Clare
"I Am," The Selected Poetry
  of John Clare
Jonathan Bate, editor
Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 2003©

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