This post comes with a big tip of the hat to Anonymous, a frequent commenter (along with Unknown), who in a comment under 'Daffodil Time' directs me to a poem by John Clare that I did not know. I find it quite beautiful and, for all its questioning tone, cheering. So here it is for all readers, however anonymous and unknown, to enjoy...
The Instinct of Hope
Is there another world for this frail dust
To warm with life and be itself again?
Something about me daily speaks there must,
And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?
'Tis nature's prophesy that such will be,
And everything seems struggling to explain
The close sealed volume of its mystery.
Time wandering onward keeps its usual pace
As seeming anxious of eternity,
To meet that calm and find a resting place.
E'en the small violet feels a future power
And waits each year renewing blooms to bring,
And surely man is no inferior flower
To die unworthy of a second spring?
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