 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
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THE HAPPY BIRD
The happy whitethroat on the sweeing boughSwayed by the impulse of the gadding wind
That ushers in the showers of april—now
Singeth right joyously & now reclined
Croucheth & clingeth to her moving seat
To keep her hold—& till the wind for rest
Pauses—she mutters inward melodies
That seem her hearts rich thinkings to repeat
& when the branch is still—her little breast
Swells out in raptures gushing symphonies
& then against her brown wing softly prest
The wind comes playing an enraptured guest
This way & that she swees—till gusts arise
More boisterous in their play—& off she flies
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |