 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
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WILD BEES
These childern of the sun which summer bringsAs pastoral minstrels in her merry train
Pipe rustic ballads upon busy wings
& glad the cotters quiet toils again
The white nosed bee that bores its little hole
In mortared walls & pipes its symphonies
& never absent couzin black as cole
That indian like bepaints its little thighs
With white & red bedight for holiday
Right earlily a morn do pipe & play
& with their legs stroke slumber from their eyes
& aye so fond they of their singing seem
That in their holes a bed at close of day
They still keep piping in their honey dreams
& larger ones that thrum on ruder pipe
Round the sweet smelling closen & rich woods
Where tawney white & red flushed clover buds
Shine bonnily & beanfields blossom ripe
Shed dainty perfumes & give honey food
To these sweet poets of the summer field
Me much delighting as I stroll along
The narrow path that hay laid meadow yields
Catching the windings of their wandering song
The black & yellow bumble first on wing
To buzz among the sallows early flowers
Hiding its nest in holes from fickle spring
Who stints his rambles with her frequent showers
& one that may for wiser piper pass
In livery dress half sables & half red
Who laps a moss ball in the meadow grass
& hurds her stores when april showers have fled
& russet commoner who knows the face
Of every blossom that the meadows brings
Starting the traveller to a quicker pace
By threatening round his head in many rings
These sweeten summer in their happy glee
By giving for her honey melodie
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |