 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
A WOODLAND SEAT
Within this pleasant wood biside the lane
Lets sit & rest us from the burning sun
& hide us in the leaves & entertain
An hour away—to watch the wood brook run
Through heaps of leaves drop dribbling after drop
Pining for freedom till it climbs along
In eddying fury oer the foamy top
& then loud laughing sings its whimpling song
Kissing the misty dewberry by its side
With eager salutations & in joy
Making the flag leaves dance in graceful pride
Giving & finding joy—here we employ
An hour right profitable thus to see
Life may meet joys where few intrusions be
Lets sit & rest us from the burning sun
& hide us in the leaves & entertain
An hour away—to watch the wood brook run
Through heaps of leaves drop dribbling after drop
Pining for freedom till it climbs along
In eddying fury oer the foamy top
& then loud laughing sings its whimpling song
Kissing the misty dewberry by its side
With eager salutations & in joy
Making the flag leaves dance in graceful pride
Giving & finding joy—here we employ
An hour right profitable thus to see
Life may meet joys where few intrusions be
424
& mark the flowers around us how they live
Not only for themselves as we may feel
But the delight which they to others give
For nature never will her gifts consceal
From those who love to seek them—here amid
These trees how many doth disclose their pride
From the unthinking rustic only hid
Who never turns him from the road aside
To look for beautys which he heedeth not
—It gives us greater zest to feel the joys
We meet in this sweet solemn suited spot
& with high extacys ones mind employs
To bear the worst that fickle life prepares
Finding her sweets as common as her cares
Not only for themselves as we may feel
But the delight which they to others give
For nature never will her gifts consceal
From those who love to seek them—here amid
These trees how many doth disclose their pride
From the unthinking rustic only hid
Who never turns him from the road aside
To look for beautys which he heedeth not
—It gives us greater zest to feel the joys
We meet in this sweet solemn suited spot
& with high extacys ones mind employs
To bear the worst that fickle life prepares
Finding her sweets as common as her cares
In every trifle somthing lives to please
Or to instruct us—every weed or flower
Heirs beauty as a birthright by degrees
Of more or less though taste alone hath power
To see & value what the herd pass bye
—This common Dandelion mark how fine
Its hue—the shadow of the days proud eye
Glows not more rich of gold—that nettle there
Trod down by careless rustics every hour
Search but its slighted blooms—kings cannot wear
Robes prankt with half the splendour of a flower
Pencilled with hues of workmanship divine
Bestowed to simple things—denied to power
& sent to gladden hearts so mean as mine
Or to instruct us—every weed or flower
Heirs beauty as a birthright by degrees
Of more or less though taste alone hath power
To see & value what the herd pass bye
—This common Dandelion mark how fine
Its hue—the shadow of the days proud eye
Glows not more rich of gold—that nettle there
Trod down by careless rustics every hour
Search but its slighted blooms—kings cannot wear
Robes prankt with half the splendour of a flower
Pencilled with hues of workmanship divine
Bestowed to simple things—denied to power
& sent to gladden hearts so mean as mine
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |