 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
KINGFISHERS
Look where two splendid feathered things
Sit on that grey and stretching bough,
That from the leaning willow hings
Half o'er the gulling flood below.
Like foreign birds' their plumage shines
In splendour's rich and varied hue;
The peacock's tail is scarce as fine—
Rich-shaded, orange, green, and blue.
Sit on that grey and stretching bough,
That from the leaning willow hings
Half o'er the gulling flood below.
Like foreign birds' their plumage shines
In splendour's rich and varied hue;
The peacock's tail is scarce as fine—
Rich-shaded, orange, green, and blue.
No finer birds are known to fly
Than these gay-dressed kingfishers are,
Who live on fish and watch the fry
Of minnows nimbly passing there;
And there they'll sit whole hours away
In that same lone and watching spot,
And when they dart to seize their prey
Drop down as sudden as a shot.
Than these gay-dressed kingfishers are,
Who live on fish and watch the fry
Of minnows nimbly passing there;
And there they'll sit whole hours away
In that same lone and watching spot,
And when they dart to seize their prey
Drop down as sudden as a shot.
Sandmartin-like, they make a hole
A steepy headlong bank beside,
As well as ever did the mole,
And there their many eggs they hide.
And as is natural to their kind,
Where mill-dam waters wildly foam,
Places more hard to reach than find
They choose, a safe and quiet home.
A steepy headlong bank beside,
As well as ever did the mole,
And there their many eggs they hide.
227
Where mill-dam waters wildly foam,
Places more hard to reach than find
They choose, a safe and quiet home.
Their hole a full arm's length is made,
Turned at the last with sudden bend,
Where lots of fishes' bones are laid
Close to the large and furthest end;
Their eggs are white as wrynecks' be
And much about that middle size,
And boys oft skulk behind a tree
To watch the old one where she flies,
And then pull out their knives in glee
And delve in vain to reach the prize.
Turned at the last with sudden bend,
Where lots of fishes' bones are laid
Close to the large and furthest end;
Their eggs are white as wrynecks' be
And much about that middle size,
And boys oft skulk behind a tree
To watch the old one where she flies,
And then pull out their knives in glee
And delve in vain to reach the prize.
| The Poems of John Clare | |