A poem by John Clare

What trifles touch our feelings, when we view
The simple scenes of Childhood's early day,
Pausing on spots where gather'd blossoms grew,
Or favour'd seats of many a childish play;
Bush, dyke, or wood, where painted pooties lay,
Where oft we've crept and crept the shades among,
Where ivy hung old roots bemoss'd with grey,
Where nettles oft our infant fingers stung,
And tears would weep the gentle wounds away:--
Ah, gentle wounds indeed, I well may say,
To those sad Manhood's tortur'd passage found,
Where naked Fate each day new pangs doth feel,
Clearing away the brambles that surround,
Inflicting tortures death can only heal.

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