 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
FRAGMENTS
The hedgerow hips to glossy scarlet turn,
Haws swarm so thick till bushes seem to burn,
And blackthorn sloes, some hung in misty dew,
True to the season, darken into blue.
Haws swarm so thick till bushes seem to burn,
And blackthorn sloes, some hung in misty dew,
True to the season, darken into blue.
Morn comes again; the dark melts into grey,
And all the heaven's spangles go away,
Save one bright star that winks and twinkles still,
Till the sun starts him off against his will;
Then the heaven's mantle seems on earth to pass
And buttercups turn stars amid the grass.
And all the heaven's spangles go away,
Save one bright star that winks and twinkles still,
Till the sun starts him off against his will;
Then the heaven's mantle seems on earth to pass
And buttercups turn stars amid the grass.
The girning winds bit sharp and thin
And made the early riser blow his nails,
And crizzling frost shot needles in the dyke
And crumpt beneath the feet down grassy vales.
And made the early riser blow his nails,
And crizzling frost shot needles in the dyke
And crumpt beneath the feet down grassy vales.
An ocean almost boundless to the mind
Of yellow harvest rolls before the wind;
Look where we will, the waves of plenty run,
And light and shadow hurries from the sun
That looks so gloriously; and by and by
The farmer comes and rubs the ears to try
Its ripeness; and at once the fields display
The glittering hook that rustles every way.
Of yellow harvest rolls before the wind;
Look where we will, the waves of plenty run,
And light and shadow hurries from the sun
That looks so gloriously; and by and by
The farmer comes and rubs the ears to try
Its ripeness; and at once the fields display
The glittering hook that rustles every way.
302
The burnet's tawny knopples
Like little honeycombs—
Bees seeking honey dinners
With many passing hums
Would come and set them bowing
And their sweets would so detain
They'd turn again when gone away
And bend them down again.
Like little honeycombs—
Bees seeking honey dinners
With many passing hums
Would come and set them bowing
And their sweets would so detain
They'd turn again when gone away
And bend them down again.
The weeds beside the hedge dance
Like so many drunken men,
Then rest till breezes whisper,
Then up and dance agen;
The meadow-sweet in darksome green
Shines in the merry light,
Till winds lift up their undersides
And then they change to white.
Like so many drunken men,
Then rest till breezes whisper,
Then up and dance agen;
The meadow-sweet in darksome green
Shines in the merry light,
Till winds lift up their undersides
And then they change to white.
The fieldling flower it thrives the best
The furthest off from every eye,
The bird is happier on her nest
Where but the sheep go grazing by;
Ah me, I think that I could rest
And think and sleep deliciously,
A time-worn forest's hermit-guest,
And fix a tent beneath a tree.
The furthest off from every eye,
The bird is happier on her nest
Where but the sheep go grazing by;
Ah me, I think that I could rest
And think and sleep deliciously,
A time-worn forest's hermit-guest,
And fix a tent beneath a tree.
| The Poems of John Clare | |