John Clare's Prose And Poetry
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Or forests rude, and the o'ershadow'd brims
Of simple ponds, where idle shepherd dreams,
Stretching his listless limbs;
Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and long,
Where joy's wild impulse swims In one continued song.
I love at early morn, from new mown swath,
To see the startled frog his route pursue;
To mark while, leaping o'er the dripping path,
His bright sides scatter dew, The early lark that from its bustle flies,
To hail his matin new; And watch him to the skies.
To note on hedgerow baulks, in moisture sprent,
The jetty snail creep from the mossy thorn,
With earnest heed, and tremulous intent, Frail brother of the morn,
That from the tiny bent's dew-misted leaves
Withdraws his timid horn, And fearful vision weaves.
Or swallow heed on smoke-tanned chimney top,
Wont to be first unsealing Morning's eye,
Ere yet the bee hath gleaned one wayward drop
Of honey on his thigh; To see him seek morn's airy couch to sing,
Until the golden sky Bepaint his russet wing.
Or sauntering boy by tanning corn to spy,
With clapping noise to startle birds away,
And hear him bawl to every passer by To know the hour of day;
While the uncradled breezes, fresh and strong,
With waking blossoms play, And breathe �olian song.
I love the south-west wind, or low or loud,
And not the less when sudden drops of rain
Moisten my glowing cheek from ebon cloud, Threatening soft showers again,
That over lands new ploughed and meadow grounds,
Summer's sweet breath unchain, And wake harmonious sounds.
Summer Images
( 1793 - 1864 )
Graphic Designs Are � By Missy's Mom
� 1997 - 1998 By Roland . All Rights Reserved .
Font Used Is Rockwell Italic .
Last Update : December 30, 1998
