 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
A WOODLAND SEAT (III)
In every trifle something lives to pleaseOr to instruct us. Every weed and flower
Heirs beauty as a birthright, by degrees
Of more or less; though taste alone hath power
To see and value what the herd pass by.
This common dandelion—mark how fine
Its hue!—the shadow of the day's proud eye
Glows not more rich of gold: that nettle there,
Trod down by careless rustics every hour—
Search but its slighted blooms, kings cannot wear
Robes prankt with half the splendour of a flower,
Pencilled with hues of workmanship divine,
Bestowed to simple things, denied to power,
And sent to gladden hearts as mean as mine.
| The Poems of John Clare | |