John Clare's Prose And Poetry
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On sweet silk grass I stretch me at mine ease,
Where I can pillow on the yielding rush; And, acting as I please,
Drop into pleasant dreams; or musing lie,
Mark the wind-shaken trees, And cloud-betravelled sky.
There think me how some barter joy for care,
And waste life's summer-health in riot rude,
Of nature, nor of nature's sweets aware. When passions vain intrude,
These, by calm musings, softened are and still;
And the heart's better mood Feels sick of doing ill.
There I can live, and at my leisure seek
Joys far from cold restraints--not fearing pride--
Free as the winds, that breathe upon my cheek
Rude health, so long denied. Here poor Integrity can sit at ease,
And list self-satisfied The song of honey-bees.
The green lane now I traverse, where it goes
Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies
Rude batter'd finger post, that stooping shows
Where the snug mystery lies; And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown,
Cheers up the short surprise, And shows a peeping town.
I see the wild flowers, in their summer morn
Of beauty, feeding on joy's luscious hours;
The gay convolvulus, wreathing round the thorn,
Agape for honey showers; And slender kingcup, burnished with the dew
Of morning's early hours, Like gold yminted new.
And mark by rustic bridge, o'er shallow stream,
Cow-tending boy, to toil unreconciled,
Absorbed as in some vagrant summer dream;
Who now, in gestures wild, Starts dancing to his shadow on the wall,
Feeling self-gratified, Nor fearing human thrall.
Summer Images
( 1793 - 1864 )
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Last Update : December 30, 1998
