 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
476
THE BRAMBLE
Spontaneous flourisher in thickets loneCurving a most impenetrable way
To all save nutters when a tree has shown
Ripe clusters to the autumns mellow day
& long the brustle of the rude affray
Clings to thy branches—scraps of garments torn
Of many hues red purple green & grey
From scrambling maid who tugs the branches down
& inly smiles at the strange garb she wears
While rough in hasty speech the brushing clown
Leg hoppled as in tethers turns & swears
& cuts the bramble strings with oath & frown
Yet scorn wronged bush taste marks thee worthy praise
Green mid the underwood of winter days
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |