He could not die when trees were green, for he loved the time

Hear the tender words of John Clare, the “peasant poet” of England, who sang of fields, birds, and hedgerows with a heart that belonged to the earth: “He could not die when trees were green, for he loved the time too well.” In these lines lies more than a pastoral image; they are the cry of a soul bound to nature, a spirit that clings to life not through fear of death, but through the overwhelming beauty of the season. The green of the trees here is no mere color—it is the fullness of life, the renewal of spring, the symbol of all that is fresh and immortal in a mortal world.

Clare, who lived much of his life in hardship and even in madness, found his deepest comfort in the turning of the seasons. For him, the rebirth of nature was not metaphor but salvation. To say one “could not die when trees were green” is to confess that beauty itself gives reason to endure. How could the soul depart when birds were singing, when fields were clothed in new life, when the air itself breathed resurrection? The time of green is too precious, too sacred, too filled with joy to allow death to intrude. Thus, love of the living world becomes stronger even than the pull of the grave.

The ancients, too, understood this truth. The Greeks saw in spring the return of Persephone from the underworld, a cycle of life conquering death for a season. To them, the flowering of the earth was proof that mortality was not the whole story, that something eternal stirred beneath the soil. Clare, though speaking centuries later, gave voice to this same instinct: when the world is most alive, death seems impossible. The green branches declare to man that life is worth clinging to, even in the shadow of sorrow.

Consider, too, the story of Anne Frank, hidden away in darkness during the cruelty of war. In her diary she wrote of a single chestnut tree that she could see from her window. Its budding in spring filled her with hope, reminding her that the world outside her prison was still alive, still beautiful. Though despair surrounded her, she, like Clare, felt that as long as trees were green, there was reason to live. Here is the living proof of his words: even in suffering, the sight of life renewed can shield the spirit from death.

Yet Clare’s line is not only a celebration of nature’s beauty—it is also an acknowledgment of the profound tie between human life and the cycles of the earth. We are not separate from the fields and trees; their greening is our own renewal, their barrenness our own decline. To love the green season “too well” is to confess our dependence upon it: it nourishes the soul as food nourishes the body. And so the poet teaches us that death, though inevitable, feels intolerable when the world itself sings of life.

The lesson for us is both simple and great. Cherish the green times in your life, whether they be the literal springtime or the moments of joy, connection, and beauty that break through your days. Let them be reasons to endure when despair presses in. Do not rush past the blossoming tree or the song of the bird—pause, and let them remind you that life, even in its hardships, is good. And when the season turns and the leaves fall, remember that the greening will come again, and with it, the call to live fully once more.

Therefore, remember Clare’s wisdom: he could not die when trees were green, for he loved the time too well. To love life deeply is to resist death, not with denial, but with devotion. It is to find in the simple miracle of nature a reason to endure, a reason to hope, a reason to sing. Let the green trees be your teachers: love the season you are in, drink deeply of its beauty, and in doing so, you will find strength to live, even when shadows gather. For while trees are green, life itself is calling—and it is a call too precious to ignore.