 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
THE CLUMP OF FERN
Pleasures lie scattered all about our ways
Harvest for thought & joy to look & glean
Much of the beautiful to win our praise
Lie where we never heeded aught had been
By this wood stile half buried in the shade
Of rude disorder—bramble woodbine all
So thickly wove that nutters scarcely made
An entrance through—& now the acorns fall
The gatherers seeking entrance pause awhile
Ere they mount up the bank to climb the stile
Half wishing that a better road was nigh
Yet here mid leaf strewn mornings autumn mild
While pleasing sounds & pleasing sights are bye
Things beautiful delight my heart to smile
Harvest for thought & joy to look & glean
Much of the beautiful to win our praise
Lie where we never heeded aught had been
By this wood stile half buried in the shade
Of rude disorder—bramble woodbine all
So thickly wove that nutters scarcely made
An entrance through—& now the acorns fall
The gatherers seeking entrance pause awhile
Ere they mount up the bank to climb the stile
Half wishing that a better road was nigh
Yet here mid leaf strewn mornings autumn mild
While pleasing sounds & pleasing sights are bye
Things beautiful delight my heart to smile
458
Here underneath the stiles moss covered post
A little bunch of fern doth thrive & spring
Hid from the noisey wind & coming frost
Like late reared young neath the wood piegons wing
Ive seen beneath the furze bush clumps of ling
So beautiful in pinky knotts of bloom
That made the inmost hearts emotions breath
A favourite love for the unsocial heath
That gives man no inviting hopes to come
To fix his dwelling & disturb the scene
So in my lonliness of mood this green
Large clump of crimpled fern leaves doth bequeath
Like feelings—& wherever wanderers roam
Some little scraps of happiness is seen
A little bunch of fern doth thrive & spring
Hid from the noisey wind & coming frost
Like late reared young neath the wood piegons wing
Ive seen beneath the furze bush clumps of ling
So beautiful in pinky knotts of bloom
That made the inmost hearts emotions breath
A favourite love for the unsocial heath
That gives man no inviting hopes to come
To fix his dwelling & disturb the scene
So in my lonliness of mood this green
Large clump of crimpled fern leaves doth bequeath
Like feelings—& wherever wanderers roam
Some little scraps of happiness is seen
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |