 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
487
SNOW STORM
Winter is come in earnest & the snow
In dazzling splendour—crumping underfoot
Spreads a white world all calm & where we go
By hedge or wood trees shine from top to root
In feathered foliage flashing light & shade
Of strangest contrast—fancys pliant eye
Delighted sees a vast romance displayed
& fairy halls descended from the sky
The smallest twig its snowy burthen wears
& woods oer head the dullest eyes engage
To shape strange things—where arch & pillar bears
A roof of grains fantastic arched & high
& little shed beside the spinney wears
The grotesque zemblance of an hermitage
In dazzling splendour—crumping underfoot
Spreads a white world all calm & where we go
By hedge or wood trees shine from top to root
In feathered foliage flashing light & shade
Of strangest contrast—fancys pliant eye
Delighted sees a vast romance displayed
& fairy halls descended from the sky
The smallest twig its snowy burthen wears
& woods oer head the dullest eyes engage
To shape strange things—where arch & pillar bears
A roof of grains fantastic arched & high
& little shed beside the spinney wears
The grotesque zemblance of an hermitage
On[e] almost sees the hermit from the wood
Come bending with his sticks beneath his arm
& then the smoke curl up its dusky flood
From the white little roof his peace to warm
One shapes his books his quiet & his joys
& in romances world forgetting mood
The scene so strange so fancys mind employs
It seems heart aching for his solitude
Domestic spots near home & trod so oft
Seen daily—known for years—by the strange wand
Of winters humour changed—the little croft
Left green at night when morns loth look obtrudes
Trees bushes grass to one wild garb subdued
Are gone & left us in another land
Come bending with his sticks beneath his arm
& then the smoke curl up its dusky flood
From the white little roof his peace to warm
One shapes his books his quiet & his joys
& in romances world forgetting mood
The scene so strange so fancys mind employs
It seems heart aching for his solitude
Domestic spots near home & trod so oft
Seen daily—known for years—by the strange wand
Of winters humour changed—the little croft
Left green at night when morns loth look obtrudes
Trees bushes grass to one wild garb subdued
Are gone & left us in another land
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |