 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
FOOTPATHS (IV)
Now, almost hid in trees, a little gateCheats us into the darkness of the wood;
We almost think the day is wearing late,
So dreamy is the light that dwells around;
And so refreshing is its sombre mood,
We feel at once, shut out from sun and sky,
All the deliciousness of solitude,
While sauntering noiseless o'er the leafy ground;
The air we breathe seems void of every trace
Of earth and all its trouble, and the mind
Yearns for a dwelling in so sweet a place,
From trouble's noise, such stillness seemeth by;
But soon the ride brings some unwelcome spire
To bid the charm of solitude retire.
| The Poems of John Clare | |