 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
THE RAGWORT
Ragwort thou humble flower with tattered leavesI love to see thee come & litter gold
What time the summer binds her russet sheaves
Decking rude spots in beautys manifold
That without thee were dreary to behold
Sunburnt & bare—the meadow bank the baulk
That leads a waggonway through mellow fields
Rich with the tints that harvests plenty yields
Browns of all hues—& everywhere I walk
Thy waste of shining blossoms richly shields
The sun tanned sward in splendid hues that burn
So bright & glaring that the very light
Of the rich sunshine doth to paleness turn
& seems but very shadows in thy sight
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |