 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
SPEAR-THISTLE
Where the broad sheepwalk opens bare and brown
With scant grass ever pining after showers,
And unchecked winds go fanning up and down
The little strawy bents and nodding flowers,
There the huge thistle, spurred with many thorns,
The sun-crackt upland's russet swells adorns.
With scant grass ever pining after showers,
And unchecked winds go fanning up and down
The little strawy bents and nodding flowers,
There the huge thistle, spurred with many thorns,
The sun-crackt upland's russet swells adorns.
Not undevoid of beauty there they come,
Armed warriors, waiting neither suns nor showers,
Guarding the little clover plots to bloom
While sheep nor oxen dare not crop their flowers
Unsheathing their own knobs of tawny flowers
When summer cometh in her hottest hours.
Armed warriors, waiting neither suns nor showers,
Guarding the little clover plots to bloom
While sheep nor oxen dare not crop their flowers
Unsheathing their own knobs of tawny flowers
When summer cometh in her hottest hours.
The pewit, swopping up and down
And screaming round the passer-by,
Or running o'er the herbage brown
With copple crown uplifted high,
Loves in its clumps to make a home
Where danger seldom cares to come.
And screaming round the passer-by,
Or running o'er the herbage brown
With copple crown uplifted high,
Loves in its clumps to make a home
Where danger seldom cares to come.
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The yellow-hammer, often prest
For spot to build and be unseen,
Will in its shelter trust her nest
When fields and meadows glow with green;
And larks, though paths go clòsely by,
Will in its shade securely lie.
For spot to build and be unseen,
Will in its shelter trust her nest
When fields and meadows glow with green;
And larks, though paths go clòsely by,
Will in its shade securely lie.
The partridge, too, that scarce can trust
The open downs to be at rest,
Will in its clumps lie down, and dust
And prune its horseshoe-circled breast,
And oft in shining fields of green
Will lay and raise its brood unseen.
The open downs to be at rest,
Will in its clumps lie down, and dust
And prune its horseshoe-circled breast,
And oft in shining fields of green
Will lay and raise its brood unseen.
The sheep, when hunger presses sore,
May nip the clover round its nest;
But soon the thistle, wounding sore,
Relieves it from each brushing guest,
That leaves a bit of wool behind,
The yellow-hammer loves to find.
May nip the clover round its nest;
But soon the thistle, wounding sore,
Relieves it from each brushing guest,
That leaves a bit of wool behind,
The yellow-hammer loves to find.
The horse will set his foot and bite
Close to the ground-lark's guarded nest
And snort to meet the prickly sight;
He fans the feathers of her breast—
Yet thistles prick so deep that he
Turns back and leaves her dwelling free.
Close to the ground-lark's guarded nest
And snort to meet the prickly sight;
He fans the feathers of her breast—
Yet thistles prick so deep that he
Turns back and leaves her dwelling free.
Its prickly knobs the dews of morn
Doth bead with dressing rich to see,
When threads doth hang from thorn to thorn
Like the small spinner's tapestry;
And from the flowers a sultry smell
Comes that agrees with summer well.
Doth bead with dressing rich to see,
When threads doth hang from thorn to thorn
Like the small spinner's tapestry;
And from the flowers a sultry smell
Comes that agrees with summer well.
The bee will make its bloom a bed,
The bumble-bee in tawny brown;
And one in jacket fringed with red
Will rest upon its velvet down
When overtaken in the rain,
And wait till sunshine comes again.
The bumble-bee in tawny brown;
And one in jacket fringed with red
Will rest upon its velvet down
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And wait till sunshine comes again.
And there are times when travel goes
Along the sheep-tracks' beaten ways,
Then pleasure many a praise bestows
Upon its blossoms' pointed rays,
When other things are parched beside
And hot day leaves it in its pride.
Along the sheep-tracks' beaten ways,
Then pleasure many a praise bestows
Upon its blossoms' pointed rays,
When other things are parched beside
And hot day leaves it in its pride.
| The Poems of John Clare | |