All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk. 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in ...

O, what can ail thee, knight at arms, Alone and palely loitering; The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing. O, what can ail thee, knight at arms, So haggard and so woe-begone?

In fact, while he admired Keats, Clare thought that his contemporary was writing about nature to suit his imagination, rather than the other way round. In Our Time on R4 - the Poetry of John Clare ...