 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
THE FERN-OWL
Hark! there's that churring noise we heard
And thought it some wild frolic boy;
'Tis sure enough an unknown bird,
I've seldom heard so strange a cry.
And thought it some wild frolic boy;
'Tis sure enough an unknown bird,
I've seldom heard so strange a cry.
'Tis like a ‘skreeker’ quickly turned,
Which nurses twine the child to please,
A cricket's note more loudly churned,
And yet but little like to these.
Which nurses twine the child to please,
A cricket's note more loudly churned,
And yet but little like to these.
I've heard it at the fall of eve,
Just after gentle showers of rain,
At early morn it would deceive
My ear, and here it calls again.
Just after gentle showers of rain,
At early morn it would deceive
My ear, and here it calls again.
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'Tis always hidden in the woods,
I never heard it on the plain,
And seldom in its singing moods,
So all inquiry ends in vain.
I never heard it on the plain,
And seldom in its singing moods,
So all inquiry ends in vain.
I've heard it in the April showers
What time the sun was going bed,
And in May's early morning hours,
When dews have bent the blossom's head.
What time the sun was going bed,
And in May's early morning hours,
When dews have bent the blossom's head.
But whether it the fern-owl be,
Or, as may hap, a stranger bird,
Is still a hidden mystery
Whose truth as fact I've never heard.
Or, as may hap, a stranger bird,
Is still a hidden mystery
Whose truth as fact I've never heard.
I've read in books but found it not,
I've talked with men of mickle skill,
To hunt it I've in thickets got,
But all remains a mystery still.
I've talked with men of mickle skill,
To hunt it I've in thickets got,
But all remains a mystery still.
| The Poems of John Clare | |