 | John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion |  |
471
FIELD CRICKET
Sweet little minstrel of the sunny summer
Housed in the pleasant swells that front the sun
Neighbour to many a happy yearly comer
For joys glad tidings when the winters done
How doth thy music through the silk grass run
That cloaths the pleasant banks with herbage new
A chittering sound of healthy happiness
That bids the passer bye be happy too
Who hearing thee feels full of pleasant moods
Picturing the cheerfulness that summers dress
Brings to the eye with all her leaves & grass
In freshness beautified & summers sounds
Brings to the ear in one continued flood
The luxury of joy that knows no bounds
Housed in the pleasant swells that front the sun
Neighbour to many a happy yearly comer
For joys glad tidings when the winters done
How doth thy music through the silk grass run
That cloaths the pleasant banks with herbage new
A chittering sound of healthy happiness
That bids the passer bye be happy too
Who hearing thee feels full of pleasant moods
Picturing the cheerfulness that summers dress
Brings to the eye with all her leaves & grass
In freshness beautified & summers sounds
Brings to the ear in one continued flood
The luxury of joy that knows no bounds
I often pause to seek thee when I pass
Thy cottage in the sweet refreshing hue
Of sunny flowers & rich luxuriant grass
But thou wert ever hidden from the view
Brooding & piping oer thy rural song
In all the happiness of solitude
Busy intruders do thy music wrong
& scare thy gladness dumb where they intrude
Ive seen thy dwelling by the scythe laid bare
& thee in russet garb from bent to bent
Moping without a song in silence there
Till grass should bring anew thy home content
& leave thee to thyself to sing & wear
The summer through without another care
Thy cottage in the sweet refreshing hue
Of sunny flowers & rich luxuriant grass
But thou wert ever hidden from the view
Brooding & piping oer thy rural song
In all the happiness of solitude
Busy intruders do thy music wrong
& scare thy gladness dumb where they intrude
Ive seen thy dwelling by the scythe laid bare
& thee in russet garb from bent to bent
Moping without a song in silence there
Till grass should bring anew thy home content
& leave thee to thyself to sing & wear
The summer through without another care
| John Clare: The Midsummer Cushion | |