 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
WINTER WEATHER
The crows drive onward through the storm of snowAnd play about, naught caring where they go.
The young colt breaks the fences in his play
And spreads his tail and gallops all the way.
The hunkèd ploughman goes without a song
And knocks his hands and scarce can get along.
Behind the thickest hedge the labourer stands
And puts his gloves away to knock his hands.
The traveller's stooping haste to get away
Keeps both hands in his pockets all the day.
The schoolboy often stops his hands to blow
And loves to make rude letters on the snow.
While tottering shepherd, though infirm and old,
Faces the cutting wind and feels no cold.
| The Poems of John Clare | |