 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
448
ASHTON LAWN
I had a joy & keep it still alive
Of hoarding in the memorys treasured book
Old favourite spots that with affections thrive
& to my inward fancys shine & look
Like well-done pictures in some winning page
Such was old Langley bush by time forsook
With its old sheltered thorn tree mossed with age
& such the roman bank by swordy well
Where idless would a leisure hour engage
To hunt where ditchers toild the pooty shell
Among the sand & grit existing still
Though buried with it sixteen hundred years
Thus man in myriads dies—while time reveres
The simplest things above his mightiest skill
Of hoarding in the memorys treasured book
Old favourite spots that with affections thrive
& to my inward fancys shine & look
Like well-done pictures in some winning page
Such was old Langley bush by time forsook
With its old sheltered thorn tree mossed with age
& such the roman bank by swordy well
Where idless would a leisure hour engage
To hunt where ditchers toild the pooty shell
Among the sand & grit existing still
Though buried with it sixteen hundred years
Thus man in myriads dies—while time reveres
The simplest things above his mightiest skill
In Ashton lawn condemned to slow decay
Close to the south-east nook a ruined hill
Lies choaked in thorns & briars—yet to this day
Reality may trace the castle still
A fragment of the moat still forms a pond
Beset with hoof tracked paths of horse & cow
That often go to drink & all beyond
Greensward with little molehills on its brow
& fairy-rings in its old mysterys dark
Still wear its ancient name & shepherds call
The closen all around it still “old parks”
Still traced by buried fragments of a wall
The castles self will soon be nothings heir
Pickt up to mend old roads—old garden walls repair
Close to the south-east nook a ruined hill
Lies choaked in thorns & briars—yet to this day
Reality may trace the castle still
A fragment of the moat still forms a pond
Beset with hoof tracked paths of horse & cow
That often go to drink & all beyond
Greensward with little molehills on its brow
& fairy-rings in its old mysterys dark
Still wear its ancient name & shepherds call
The closen all around it still “old parks”
Still traced by buried fragments of a wall
The castles self will soon be nothings heir
Pickt up to mend old roads—old garden walls repair
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |