 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
HARVEST RHYME
The harvest morn, a busy man—
There's naught can do without him—
Has scarce a minute in his hands
To rest and look about him.
The wheat is shining in the stowk,
The barley's flung together,
The beans begin to black and drowk
And merry is the weather.
There's naught can do without him—
Has scarce a minute in his hands
To rest and look about him.
The wheat is shining in the stowk,
The barley's flung together,
The beans begin to black and drowk
And merry is the weather.
The mist is early forced to run,
The sun it burns him early,
And the dykes they reek before the sun
Has dried the bearded barley:
So by the hedge the shockers sat
In the day's grey mellow dawning
And with the snuff-box seasoned chat
In the harvest's early morning.
The sun it burns him early,
And the dykes they reek before the sun
Has dried the bearded barley:
So by the hedge the shockers sat
In the day's grey mellow dawning
And with the snuff-box seasoned chat
In the harvest's early morning.
The morning, like the grazing horse
Up, out, and stirring early,
Their giant shadows stalk across
Some three or four lands of barley;
The boy with shouldered fork and rake
Laughs loud and halloos early—
‘What a soldier would my shadow make
As he marches by the barley!’
Up, out, and stirring early,
Their giant shadows stalk across
Some three or four lands of barley;
293
Laughs loud and halloos early—
‘What a soldier would my shadow make
As he marches by the barley!’
The milkmaid singing like a boy
With her yokes upon her shoulder
Has in her face such health and joy,
All love her that behold her.
The partridge where she nimbles past
Whews up with sudden warning
And the hare bolts from his bunch of grass,
So early in the morning,
With her yokes upon her shoulder
Has in her face such health and joy,
All love her that behold her.
The partridge where she nimbles past
Whews up with sudden warning
And the hare bolts from his bunch of grass,
So early in the morning,
But the lark sits on the barley swath
As she passes to the pasture
And though the mouse runs o'er her path
He meets with no disaster;
With not a thought to hurt or harm,
All ways of mischief scorning,
She sings along the busy farm
The joy of every morning.
As she passes to the pasture
And though the mouse runs o'er her path
He meets with no disaster;
With not a thought to hurt or harm,
All ways of mischief scorning,
She sings along the busy farm
The joy of every morning.
Through the hedge the horse-boy rustles past
Where the horses blundered through;
O'er head and shoulders pattering fast
He shakes down showers of dew.
His dirty slop as dabbled shows
As in a shower of rain,
But careless as a song he goes
And cracks them from the grain.
Where the horses blundered through;
O'er head and shoulders pattering fast
He shakes down showers of dew.
His dirty slop as dabbled shows
As in a shower of rain,
But careless as a song he goes
And cracks them from the grain.
| The Poems of John Clare | |