 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
LONE HAPPINESS
‘These birds, how happy must they be!’
I muttered, as I reached to pull
The woodbine twisting round the tree
In spots so wild and beautiful;
The furze flowers, spread on either hand,
Shine one broad shower of gleaming gold,
And on this mole-hill where I stand
To look, 'tis luscious to behold.
I muttered, as I reached to pull
The woodbine twisting round the tree
In spots so wild and beautiful;
The furze flowers, spread on either hand,
Shine one broad shower of gleaming gold,
And on this mole-hill where I stand
To look, 'tis luscious to behold.
I've oft been glad at heart to see
A footpath winding through the grass
O'er narrow stiles 'neath spreading tree,
Not wide enough for two to pass;
But now no ownership I fear,
Nor path to keep nor stile to climb,
I feel myself a monarch here,
My very fancies grow sublime.
A footpath winding through the grass
O'er narrow stiles 'neath spreading tree,
Not wide enough for two to pass;
But now no ownership I fear,
Nor path to keep nor stile to climb,
I feel myself a monarch here,
My very fancies grow sublime.
239
Yon bird that winnows in the sky
On narrow, pointed, quivering wings,
These sheep that in the mole-hills lie,
Are all the hermit living things
I see—and from the world away
I feel what she can never give,
So happy at my heart to-day
That from the world I wish to live.
On narrow, pointed, quivering wings,
These sheep that in the mole-hills lie,
Are all the hermit living things
I see—and from the world away
I feel what she can never give,
So happy at my heart to-day
That from the world I wish to live.
| The Poems of John Clare | |