 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
470
THE WOODLARKS NEST
The woodlark rises from the coppice tree
Time after time untired she upward springs
Silent while up then coming down she sings
A pleasant song of varied melody
Repeated often till some sudden check
The sweet toned impulse of her rapture stops
Then stays her trembling wings & down she drops
Like to a stone amid the crowding kecks
Where underneath some hazels mossy root
Is hid her little low & humble nest
Upon the ground larks love such places best
& here doth well her quiet station suit
As safe as secresy her six eggs lie
Mottled with dusky spots unseen by passers bye
Time after time untired she upward springs
Silent while up then coming down she sings
A pleasant song of varied melody
Repeated often till some sudden check
The sweet toned impulse of her rapture stops
Then stays her trembling wings & down she drops
Like to a stone amid the crowding kecks
Where underneath some hazels mossy root
Is hid her little low & humble nest
Upon the ground larks love such places best
& here doth well her quiet station suit
As safe as secresy her six eggs lie
Mottled with dusky spots unseen by passers bye
Yet chance will somtimes prove a faithless guest
Leading some wanderer by her haunts to roam
& startled by the rustle from her rest
She flutters out & so betrays her home
Yet this is seldom accident can meet
With her weed hidden & surrounded nest
Ive often wondered when agen my feet
She fluttered up & fanned the anemonie
That blossomed round in crowds—how birds could be
So wise to find such hidden homes again
& this in sooth oft puzzled me—they go
Far off & then return—but natures plain
She giveth what sufficeth them to know
That they of comfort may their share retain
Leading some wanderer by her haunts to roam
& startled by the rustle from her rest
She flutters out & so betrays her home
Yet this is seldom accident can meet
With her weed hidden & surrounded nest
Ive often wondered when agen my feet
She fluttered up & fanned the anemonie
That blossomed round in crowds—how birds could be
So wise to find such hidden homes again
& this in sooth oft puzzled me—they go
Far off & then return—but natures plain
She giveth what sufficeth them to know
That they of comfort may their share retain
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |