 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
431
PLEASURES OF FANCY
A Path old tree goes bye thee crooking on& through this little gate that claps & bangs
Against thy rifted trunk what steps hath gone
Though but a lonely way—yet mystery hangs
Oer crowds of pastoral scenes recordless here
The boy might climb the nest in thy young boughs
Thats slept half an eternity—in fear
The herdsman may have left his startled cows
For shelter when heavens thunder voice was near
Here too the woodman on his wallet laid
For pillow may have slept an hour away
& poet pastoral lover of the shade
Here sat & mused half some long summers day
While some old shepherd listened to the lay
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |