 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
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.
| The Poems of John Clare | |