 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
74
A SUNSET
Ah, just as well as if but yesternightI do remember on that self-same hill
I dropt me down with exquisite delight;
The very hawthorn bush is standing still
From whence I sought a twig of blooming may
And stuck it to my bosom when at rest.
Oh, 'twas a lovely eve; the lambs at play
Scampt round and round the hill, and in the west
The clouds of purple and of crimson dye
Were huddled up together in a heap,
And o'er the scented wide world's edge did lie
Resting as quiet as if lulled to sleep.
I gazed upon them with a wishing eye,
And longed but vainly for the painter's power
To give existence to the mingling dye
And snatch a beauty from an evening hour.
But soft and soft it lost itself in night,
And changed and changed in many a lumined track;
I felt concerned to see it leave the sight
And hide its lovely face in blanking black.
| The Poems of John Clare | |