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John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion

Edited by R. K. R. Thornton & Anne Tibble

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A MORNING WALK
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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153

A MORNING WALK

Ah sure it is a lovely day
As ever summers glory yields
& I will put my books away
& wander in the fields
Just risen is the red round sun
Cocks from the roost doth loudly bawl
& house bee busily begun
Hums round the mortered wall
& while I take my staff to start
Birds sing among the eldern leaves
& fighting sparrows glad at heart
Chirp in the cottage eaves
Nor can I help but turn & view
Ere yet I close the creaking door
The sunbeams eager peeping through
Upon the sanded floor
The twilight streaks of lightsome grey
Hath from the eastern summit gone
& clouds cloathed in the pride of day
Put golden liverys on
The creeping sun large round & red
Yet higher hastens up & higher
Till blazing oer its cloudy bed
It shines a ball of fire
Cows now their morning meals pursue
The carthorse to its labour's sped
& sheep shake off the nightly dew
Just risen from their bed
Tha maids are out & many a smile
Are left them by the passing swain
Who as they lightly skip the stile
Will turn & smile again
All nightly things are on the rout
By daylights burning smiles betrayed
& gnats retreating from the sun
Fly dancing to the shade
The snail is stealing from the light
Where grass a welcome shelter weaves

154

& white moths shrink in cool delight
Behind the bowering leaves
The hares their fearful morsels eat
Till by a snufling dog descried
Then hastening to their snug retreat
They waited eventide
The rabbit bustled out of sight
Nor longer cropt each thymy hill
But seeks his den where gloomy night
Is kept imprisoned still
The walks that sweetest pleasure yields
When things appear so fresh & fair
Are when we wander round the fields
To breath the morning air
The fields like spring seem young & gay
The dewy trees & painted sky
& larks as sweetly as in May
Still whistle as they fly
The woods that oft my steps recieves
I cannot search for resting bowers
For when I touch the sleepy leaves
Dews patter down in showers
But I can range the green & share
The charms the pasture scene displays
Crooking down sheep tracks here & there
That lead a thousand ways
Bowing dewdropping by the stream
The flowers glow lively on the sight
Awaking from nights summer dream
As conscious of delight
Nor could I crop them in such hours
Without regret that I'd destroyed
A joy in my companion flowers
As sweet as I enjoyed
The stinking finweeds blushing bloom
Their pea like flowers appear so fair
That bees will to their bosoms come
& hope for honey there
For bumble bees ere flowers are dry

155

Will wake & brush the trembling dew
& drone as mellancholy bye
When dreams are proved untrue
While waving rushbeds winding through
I idly swing my staff about
To free their tasseled tops from dew
The leveret startles out
& now the lark starts from its nest
But not to sing—on thistle nigh
It perks in fear & prunes its breast
Till I have journeyed bye
The resting cow just turns its head
To stare then chews its cud again
The colt more timid leaves its bed
& shakes its shaggy main
The shoy sheep flye & faster still
The wet grass smoaking neath their flight
When shepherds urged their whistles shrill
& dogs appear in sight
Still there is joy that will not cease
Calm hovering oer the face of things
That sweet tranquility & peace
That morning ever brings
The shadows by the sun portrayed
Lye basking in the golden light
Een little hillocks stretch their shade
As if they loved the sight
The brook seemed purling sweeter bye
As freshened from the cooling light
& on its breast the morning sky
Smiles beautiful & bright
The pools still depth as night was bye
Warmed as to life in curling rings
Stirred by the touch of water flye
Or zephers gentle wings
& cows did on its margin lie
As blest as morn would never cease
& knapping horse grazed slowly bye
That added to its peace

156

No flies disturbed the herding boys
Save flies the summer water breeds
That harmless shared the morning joys
& hummed among the weeds
Birds fluttered round the waters brink
Then perched their dabbled wings to dry
& swallows often stooped to drink
& twittered gladly bye
& on the brook banks rushy ridge
Larks sat the morning sun to share
& doves where ivy hides the bridge
Sing soothing dittys there
The leaves of ash & elms & willows
That skirt the pastures wildered way
Heaved to the breeze in gentle billows
Of mingled green & grey
—The birds the breeze—the milkers call
The brook that in the sun did glisten
Told morns delight that smiled on all
As one that loves to listen
O who can shun the lovely morning
The calms the crowds of beautious things
O wheres the soul that treats with scorning
The beauty morning brings
With dewdrops braided round her hair
& opening flowers her breast adorning
O wheres the soul that cannot share
The lovliness of morning
By hedgerow side & field & brook
I love to be its partner still
To turn each leaf of natures book
Where all may read as will
& he who loves it not destroys
His quiet & makes life a slave
His soul is dead to loves & joys
His own heart is their grave
The very boys appear to share
The joy of mornings lovely hours
In rapture running here & there

157

To stick their hats with flowers
Some loll them by a resting stile
To listen pleasing things around
Dove lark & bee & try the while
To imitate the sound
The shepherd muses oer his hook
& quiet as the morning seems
Or reads some wild mysterious book
On “fortunes moles & dreams”
While by his side as blest as he
His dog in peaceful slumber lies
Unwakened as he used to be
To watch the teazing flies
Rapt in delight I long have stood
Gazing on scenes that seem to smile
& now to view far field & wood
I climb this battered stile
There sails the puddock still & proud
Assailed at first by swopping crows
But soon it meets the morning cloud
& scorns such humble foes
The mist that round the distance bent
By woodland side & slopeing hill
Fled as each minute came & went
More far & further still
& the blue tinge which night renewed
Round the horisons fairey way
More faster than the eye pursued
Shrank unpercieved away
By leaning trees beneath the swail
For pleasing things I love to look
Or loll oer oak brigs guarding rail
That strideth oer the brook
To mark above the willow row
The painted windmills peeping sails
Seeming in its journey slow
Pleased with the easy gentle gales
& oft I sit me on the ground
Musing upon a neighbouring flower

158

Or watch the church clocks humming sound
To count the passing hour
Or mark the brook its journey take
In gentle curves round many a weed
Or hear the soft wind first awake
Among the rustling reed