The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
NOON
All how silent and how stillNothing heard but yonder mill
While the dazzel'd eye surveys
All around a liquid blaze
405
If we earnest look it seems
As if crooked bits of glass
Seem'd repeatedley to pass
O! for a puffing breeze to blow
But breezes all are strangers now
Not a twig is seen to shake
Nor the smalest bent to quake
From the rivers muddy side
Not a curve is seen to glide
And no longer on the stream
Watching lies the silver bream
Forcing from repeated springs
‘Verges in succesive rings’
Bees are faint and cease to hum
Birds are overpower'd and dumb
And no more loves oaten strains
Sweetley thro the air complains
Vocal voices all are mute
Tuneles[s] lies the pipe and flute
Shepherds with their panting sheep
In the swailiest corner creep
And from the tormenting heat
All are wishing to retreat
Huddel'd up in grass and flowers
Mowers wait for cooler hours
And the Cow-boy seeks the sedge
Ramping in the woodland hedge
While his cattle oer the vales
Scamper with uplifted tails
Others not so wild and mad
That can better bear the gad
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Or if nigh in waters plunge
—O to see how flowers are took
How It grieves me when I look
Ragged robins once so pink
Now are turnd as black a[s] ink
And the leaves being scorch'd so much
Even crumble at the touch
Drowking lies the Meadow sweet
Flopping down beneath ones feet
While to all the flowers that blow
If in open air they grow
The injurious deed alike is done
By the hot relentless sun
E'en the dew is parched up
From the teazle's jointed cup
O poor birds where must ye flye
Now your water pots are dry
If ye stay upon the heath
Ye'll be choak'd & clam'd to death
Therefore leave the shadeles goss
Seek the spring head lin'd with moss
There your little feet may stand
Safely on the printing sand
While in full poss[ess]ion where
Purling eddies ripple clear
You with ease and plenty blest
Sip the coolest and the best
Then away and wet your throats
Cheer me with your warbling notes
'T'will hot noon the more revive
While I wander to contrive
For my self a place as good
In the middle of a wood
There aside some mossy bank
Where the grass in bunshes rank
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Shall be where I'll chuse to lye
Fearless of the things that creep
There I'll think and there I'll sleep
Careing not to stir at all
Till the dew begins to fall
| The early poems of John Clare | |