 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
123
WINTER SNOWSTORM (II)
One almost sees the hermit from the woodCome bending with his sticks beneath his arm,
And then the smoke curl up its dusky flood
From the white little roof his peace to warm;
One shapes his books, his quiet, and his joys,
And in romances' world-forgetting mood
The scene so strange so fancy's mind employs
It seems heart-aching for his solitude:
Domestic spots near home and trod so oft,
Seen daily, known for years—by the strange wand
Of winter's humour changed; the little croft
Left green at night, when morn's loath looks obtrude,
Trees, bushes, grass, to one wild garb subdued,
Have gone and left us in another land.
| The Poems of John Clare | |