 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
NUTTING
The sun had stooped his westward clouds to winLike weary traveller seeking for an Inn
When from the hazelly wood we glad descried
The ivied gateway by the pasture side
Long had we sought for nutts amid the shade
Where silence fled the rustle that we made
When torn by briars & brushed by sedges rank
We left the wood & on the velvet bank
Of short sward pasture ground we sat us down
To shell our nutts before we reached the town
The near hand stubble field with mellow glower
Showed the dimmed blaze of poppys still in flower
& sweet the molehills smelt we sat upon
& now the thymes in bloom but where is pleasure gone
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |