The early poems of John Clare 1804-1822: General editor Eric Robinson: Edited by Eric Robinson and David Powell: Associate editor Margaret Grainger |
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 | The early poems of John Clare |  |
A WINTERS RAMBLE
How chill the soft air meets ones face & yet
The winds so weak as een the ryhme flake light
On every twig like feathers closly set
Clings unmolestedly from morn till night
A novel shew for those who love to range
In noveltys of nature—hoary scene
To turn to summer now how odd a change
Woods white as is the clouds that once were green
The winds so weak as een the ryhme flake light
On every twig like feathers closly set
Clings unmolestedly from morn till night
A novel shew for those who love to range
In noveltys of nature—hoary scene
To turn to summer now how odd a change
Woods white as is the clouds that once were green
Tho some for pleasure seek the corners bounds
Right glad to hide from winters gloomy days
Listning well pleasd the woodsaps fizzling sounds
Or hoarse ton'd bellows puffing up the blaze
Still there are those that now [&] then does throw
Their doublets over arm & loves like me
To take wild rambles thro the crumpling snow
The novel charms of winters works to see
Right glad to hide from winters gloomy days
Listning well pleasd the woodsaps fizzling sounds
Or hoarse ton'd bellows puffing up the blaze
Still there are those that now [&] then does throw
Their doublets over arm & loves like me
To take wild rambles thro the crumpling snow
The novel charms of winters works to see
467
Most beautiful it is to watch by times
The red sun rising with a heatless glow
Till oer the hills tops step by step he climbs
A flaming circle glittering on the snow
& there is beauty in a rising blast
Like fuzzy wool packs creeping from the north
That 'proaches deep'ning into stains at last
As black as midnight ever brought to birth
The red sun rising with a heatless glow
Till oer the hills tops step by step he climbs
A flaming circle glittering on the snow
& there is beauty in a rising blast
Like fuzzy wool packs creeping from the north
That 'proaches deep'ning into stains at last
As black as midnight ever brought to birth
| The early poems of John Clare | |