First Love

I ne'er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet.
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.

My face turned pale, a deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked what could I ail
My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away.
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.

I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start.
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.

Are flowers the winter's choice
Is love's bed always snow
She seemed to hear my silent voice
Not love appeals to know.

I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling place
And can return no more.

Notes

"First Love" was written by John Clare, 1793-1864, about his true first love, Mary Joyce. She was the daughter of a wealthy farmer, and Clare’s separation from her created an overwhelming sense of loss that set the tone for much of Clare’s love poems.

Clare was mired in poverty all of his life. At times he made his own paper by scraping birch bark, and he made his own ink with some dyes and rain water.

John Clare married Martha Turner in 1820, the same year that he published his first book of poems. His "rural poetry" was relatively popular through the ‘20’s and Clare enjoyed some success throughout London. By the 1830’s the popularity of his poetry had diminished. Clare published 5 books of poetry during this period, each better than the previous, but each sold fewer copies than the previous.

Stress and depression overtook Clare and he was admitted to a mental asylum in 1837. He had become delusional, imagining himself to be Lord Byron at times, Shakespeare at others, a prizefighter or a son of George III.

He walked home from the asylum in 1841, about 100 miles, hoping that he would reunite with his first love, Mary Joyce. He had convinced himself that he was married to both his wife and Mary Joyce at once. He imagined that he had children with Mary Joyce as well.

Disappointed and depressed at not finding her, Clare entered another asylum where he remained for the rest of his life. He continued to write poetry as his health permitted while confined in the asylum. In fact some of his best love poems were written during the early years of this confinement.

In all, Clare wrote over 3500 poems, about 400 of which were published during his lifetime.

Here’s a bonus, John Clare’s poem, "To Mary."

To Mary

I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,
And yet thou art not there;
I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,
And press the common air,
Thy eyes are gazing upon mine,
When thou art out of sight;
My lips are always touching thine,
At morning, noon, and night.

I think and speak of other things
To keep my mind at rest;
But still to thee my memory clings
Like love in woman’s breast.
I hide it from the world’s wide eye,
And think and speak contrary;
But soft the wind comes from the sky,
And whispers takes of Mary.

The night wind whispers in my ear,
The moon shines in my face;I find in every place.
The breeze is whispering in the bush,
And the dews fall from the tree,
All sighing on, and will not hush,
Some pleasant tales of thee.

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