John Clare’s speaker is writing a letter, and he begins by comparing his verse-making to boys who chase a loaded hay cart just for the thrill of riding back—a pure, pointless joy. With a half-day’s leisure, he dances with poetry’s measured feet to kill time and turn a care into a friendly rhyme. The muse’s gallop amuses him, though he admits he has little to divert and more will than wit. But the game tires him. Like children racing to touch a wall, he’s been run hard and long, so he decides to stop chasing her. At the letter’s close, he’ll laugh and beat her simply by ending in prose. The mood is playful and self-mocking: there’s delight in the chase, then a shrug of fatigue. The whole thing feels intimate and offhand, as if the poet is letting you in on a quirk of his temperament—writing verse for fun, then cheerfully undercutting it.
Letter in Verse — Summary
Like boys that run behind the loaded wain For the mere joy of riding back again, When summer from the meadow carts the hay And school hours leave them half a day to play; So I with leisure on three sides a sheet Of foolscap dance with poesy's measured feet, Just to ride post upon the wings of time And kill a care, to friendship turned in rhyme. The muse's gallop hurries me in sport With much to read and little to divert, And I, amused, with less of wit than will, Run till I tire.--And so to cheat her still. Like children running races who shall be First in to touch the orchard wall or tree, The last half way behind, by distance vext, Turns short, determined to be first the next; So now the muse has run me hard and long-- I'll leave at once her races and her song; And, turning round, laugh at the letter's close And beat her out by ending it in prose.