 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
AUTUMN MORNING
The mist lies on the weeds, but clears away,And half the fields lie open to the day.
The ditcher hollos out, and cleans his spade,
To see the dogs go where his dinner's laid.
They snuff about, and stare, and hurry by
The silly sheep, that need not start and fly.
They snuff the morning gale and hurry on,
And only follow where the game is gone;
And bite the weeds in wantonness and play,
And leap along the stubbles all the day;
Then sit on end with pointed foot, and eye
The partridge brood that round the bushes fly;
And soon the shooters' thunder loudly calls,
And half the covey in the stubble falls.
| The Poems of John Clare | |