 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
THE FERN OWLS NEST
The weary woodman rocking home beneathHis tightly banded faggot wonders oft
While crossing over the furze crowded heath
To hear the fern owls cry that whews aloft
In circling whirls & often by his head
Wizzes as quick as thought & ill at rest
As through the rustling ling with heavy tread
He goes nor heeds he tramples near its nest
That underneath the furze or squatting thorn
Lies hidden on the ground & teazing round
That lonely spot she wakes her jarring noise
To the unheeding waste till mottled morn
Fills the red east with daylights coming sounds
& the heaths echoes mocks the herding boys
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |