Like boys that run behind the loaded wain <br />For the mere joy of riding back again, <br />When summer from the meadow carts the hay <br />And school hours leave them half a day to play; <br />So I with leisure on three sides a sheet <br />Of foolscap dance with poesy's measured feet, <br />Just to ride post upon the wings of time <br />And kill a care, to friendship turned in rhyme. <br />The muse's gallop hurries me in sport <br />With much to read and little to divert, <br />And I, amused, with less of wit than will, <br />Run till I tire.--And so to cheat her still. <br />Like children running races who shall be <br />First in to touch the orchard wall or tree, <br />The last half way behind, by distance vext, <br />Turns short, determined to be first the next; <br />So now the muse has run me hard and long-- <br />I'll leave at once her races and her song; <br />And, turning round, laugh at the letter's close <br />And beat her out by ending it in prose.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/letter-in-verse/
