 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
HAPPINESS OF EVENING
The winter wind with strange & fearful gust
Stirs the dark wood & in the lengthy night
Howls in the chimney top while fears mistrust
Listens the noise by the small glimmering light
Of cottage hearth where warm a circle sits
Of happy dwellers telling morts of tales
Where some long memory wakens up by fits
Laughter & fear & over all prevails
Wonder predominant—they sit & hear
The very hours to minutes & the song
Or story be the subject what it may
Is ever found too short & never long
While the uprising tempest loudly roars
& boldest hearts fear stirring out of doors
Stirs the dark wood & in the lengthy night
Howls in the chimney top while fears mistrust
Listens the noise by the small glimmering light
Of cottage hearth where warm a circle sits
Of happy dwellers telling morts of tales
Where some long memory wakens up by fits
Laughter & fear & over all prevails
Wonder predominant—they sit & hear
The very hours to minutes & the song
Or story be the subject what it may
Is ever found too short & never long
While the uprising tempest loudly roars
& boldest hearts fear stirring out of doors
492
Fears ignorance their fancy only harms
Doors safely locked fear only entrance wins
While round the fire in every corner warms
Till nearest hitch away & rub their shins
& now the tempest in its plight begins
The shutters jar the woodbine on the wall
Rustles agen the panes & over all
The noisey storm to troublous fancy dins
& pity stirs the stoutest heart to call
“Who's there” as slow the door latch seemly stirred
But nothing answered so the sounds they heard
Was no benighted traveller—& they fall
To telling pleasant tales to conquor fear
& sing a merry song till bedtime creepeth near
Doors safely locked fear only entrance wins
While round the fire in every corner warms
Till nearest hitch away & rub their shins
& now the tempest in its plight begins
The shutters jar the woodbine on the wall
Rustles agen the panes & over all
The noisey storm to troublous fancy dins
& pity stirs the stoutest heart to call
“Who's there” as slow the door latch seemly stirred
But nothing answered so the sounds they heard
Was no benighted traveller—& they fall
To telling pleasant tales to conquor fear
& sing a merry song till bedtime creepeth near
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |