 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
356
LOVE OF THE FIELDS
The shepherd bends musing beneath the green thorn
& his shag dog as black as a coal
Wet with chasing the rabbits about in the corn
Lies to watch them bob out of the hole
In the bank—& to make up the picture of morn
The mare stands a knapping the foal
& when these delicious enchantments I see
O I think what a life must the glad shepherds be
& his shag dog as black as a coal
Wet with chasing the rabbits about in the corn
Lies to watch them bob out of the hole
In the bank—& to make up the picture of morn
The mare stands a knapping the foal
& when these delicious enchantments I see
O I think what a life must the glad shepherds be
Then he'll sawn by the brook where the dewberrys shoot
That for all the world look as the morn
Had breathed as it past—& the old willow root
Makes his foothold a step—& the thorn
Grows a staff—while he reaches a maiden the fruit
Whom beauty & blushes adorn
& when such delicious green pictures I see
O who can help wishing their tennant to be
That for all the world look as the morn
Had breathed as it past—& the old willow root
Makes his foothold a step—& the thorn
Grows a staff—while he reaches a maiden the fruit
Whom beauty & blushes adorn
& when such delicious green pictures I see
O who can help wishing their tennant to be
Then the woodman he goes with his hatchet & bill
A singing old songs as he goes
& the wood gate it claps as twould never be still
Till echo affrightens the crows
In the oaks—& the rabbit pops off from the hill
As hid in green bushes he goes
Brushing through the green ferns by the hugh spreading tree
O I think what a joy must the forresters be
A singing old songs as he goes
& the wood gate it claps as twould never be still
Till echo affrightens the crows
In the oaks—& the rabbit pops off from the hill
As hid in green bushes he goes
Brushing through the green ferns by the hugh spreading tree
O I think what a joy must the forresters be
By the old spinney gate in the green narrow lane
The gipsey sits under his camp
Where the woodbines are all in full blossom again
& the ass stands the thistle to champ
On the hill—while the camp is so hid from the rain
& the grass is so free from the damp
& through the green leaves the sun gleams so divine
O I cannot help wishing his pleasures were mine
The gipsey sits under his camp
Where the woodbines are all in full blossom again
& the ass stands the thistle to champ
On the hill—while the camp is so hid from the rain
& the grass is so free from the damp
& through the green leaves the sun gleams so divine
O I cannot help wishing his pleasures were mine
The shepherd enjoys all the riches of may
& labour grows pleasure by stealth
The woodman abides in the old forest grey
Amidst the green temple of health
In the swale—while the gipsey he builds in a day
A house without trouble or wealth
& when these delicious green pictures I see
O I wish the fields out-of-door tennant to be
& labour grows pleasure by stealth
The woodman abides in the old forest grey
Amidst the green temple of health
In the swale—while the gipsey he builds in a day
A house without trouble or wealth
357
O I wish the fields out-of-door tennant to be
To make a cot een of a hugh hollow tree
Where the badger hath burrowed a den
Or warp a rude camp on the molehilly lea
Where the sheep bleat away from the pen
On the fallows—or else in the green forest be
Where the fox seeketh safety agen
O I think though the world has grown old in its care
I should meet with the garden of paradise there
Where the badger hath burrowed a den
Or warp a rude camp on the molehilly lea
Where the sheep bleat away from the pen
On the fallows—or else in the green forest be
Where the fox seeketh safety agen
O I think though the world has grown old in its care
I should meet with the garden of paradise there
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |