 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
THE WILLOW-BITER
Beside a mole-hill, thickly topt
With wild rock-roses' lemon blooms,
I stooped, and out a something popt,
A very mouse in russet plumes;
So low and nimble was its flight
It rather seemed to run than fly,
And in a furze bush out of sight
It in a moment left my eye.
With wild rock-roses' lemon blooms,
I stooped, and out a something popt,
A very mouse in russet plumes;
So low and nimble was its flight
It rather seemed to run than fly,
And in a furze bush out of sight
It in a moment left my eye.
A lapt-up ball of withered grass
Appeared its little tiny house;
And sure enough my early guess
Thought it the dwelling of a mouse;
At length I found a little hole
I scarce could get a finger through,
And eggs, a dozen on the whole—
I wanted them to tell it true—
Appeared its little tiny house;
And sure enough my early guess
Thought it the dwelling of a mouse;
232
I scarce could get a finger through,
And eggs, a dozen on the whole—
I wanted them to tell it true—
As large as is a large white pea,
And less than wrens' in hovels are,
With spots scarce big enough to see
Most finely freckled here and there.
The woodmen call them, in their way,
The willow-biters, 'cause they see
Them biting in the month of May
The young shoots of the willow tree;
But what they are in learning's way
Is all unknown to them or me.
And less than wrens' in hovels are,
With spots scarce big enough to see
Most finely freckled here and there.
The woodmen call them, in their way,
The willow-biters, 'cause they see
Them biting in the month of May
The young shoots of the willow tree;
But what they are in learning's way
Is all unknown to them or me.
| The Poems of John Clare | |