 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
396
SEPTEMBER MORNINGS
Sweet come the misty morning in September;
Among the dewy paths 'tis sweet to stray,
Greensward or stubbles, as I well remember
I have done, and the mist it curleth grey
And thick as smoke; like net-work on the spray
Or seeded grass, the cobweb draperies run,
Beaded with pearls of dew at early day;
And on the pleachy stubbles peeps the sun,
The lamp of day when that of night is done.
Among the dewy paths 'tis sweet to stray,
Greensward or stubbles, as I well remember
I have done, and the mist it curleth grey
And thick as smoke; like net-work on the spray
Or seeded grass, the cobweb draperies run,
Beaded with pearls of dew at early day;
And on the pleachy stubbles peeps the sun,
The lamp of day when that of night is done.
The blackbird startles from the homestead hedge,
Raindrops and leaves fall yellow as he springs;
Such images are nature's sweetest pledge,
To me there's music in his rustling wings.
‘Prink, prink,’ he cries, and loud the robin sings;
The small hawk like a shot drops from the sky
Close to my feet for mice and creeping things,
Then, swift as thought, again he suthers by,
And hides among the clouds from each pursuing eye.
Raindrops and leaves fall yellow as he springs;
Such images are nature's sweetest pledge,
To me there's music in his rustling wings.
‘Prink, prink,’ he cries, and loud the robin sings;
The small hawk like a shot drops from the sky
Close to my feet for mice and creeping things,
Then, swift as thought, again he suthers by,
And hides among the clouds from each pursuing eye.
The meadow flowers now rustle, bleached and dank
And misted o'er with down as fine as dew.
The sloe and dewberry shine along the bank
Where weeds in bloom's luxuriance lately grew.
Red rose the sun, and up the moor-hen flew;
From bank to bank the meadow arches stride,
Where foamy floods in winter tumble through
And spread a restless ocean foaming wide,
Where now the cow-boys sleep, nor fear the coming tide.
And misted o'er with down as fine as dew.
The sloe and dewberry shine along the bank
Where weeds in bloom's luxuriance lately grew.
Red rose the sun, and up the moor-hen flew;
From bank to bank the meadow arches stride,
Where foamy floods in winter tumble through
And spread a restless ocean foaming wide,
Where now the cow-boys sleep, nor fear the coming tide.
| The Poems of John Clare | |