Hetti talks about psychosis
The romantic poet, John Clare spent much of the last years of his life in an asylum. Life had been hard as it was for many in the eighteenth century. Born into agricultural poverty, known as the ‘peasant poet,’ Clare had a great love of nature, of the unspoilt landscape that surrounded him, the changing seasons, the colours and textures that ebbed and flowed, that came together and fell way. He found joy beneath the rich canopy of an oak tree, amongst bluebells and primrose, admiring a hedgerow filled with cow parsley and stitchwort, when he heard the nightingale sing, upon seeing the small, delicate wings of a butterfly.
Unfortunately, the Industrial Revolution had no time for sentimentality, so Clare’s precious backwater was ripped apart by the idle rich who claimed it as their own. It upset him terribly. Nature fuelled his poetry and to watch its slow, painful devastation…
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