The Poems of John Clare :: :: University of Virginia Library

Oh, I do love to force a way
Through woods where lone the woodman goes,
Through all the matted shades to stray,
The brambles tearing at my clothes;
And it may tear; I love the noise
And hug the solitary joys.

The woodman, he from top to toe
In leathern doublet brushes on;
He cares not where his rambles go,
Thorns, briers, he beats them every one;
Their utmost spite his armour foils;
Unhurt, he dares his daily toils.

Knee-deep in fern he daily stoops
And loud his bill or hatchet chops,
As snug he trims the faggot up
Or gaps in mossy hedges stops;
While echo chops as he hath done
As if she counted every one.

Through thickest shades I love to go
Where stovens, foiled to get above,
Cramp, crook, and form so thick below
Fantastic arbours.—Oh, I love
To sit me there till fancy weaves
Rich joys beneath a world of leaves.

The moss stump grows the easiest chair;
Agen its grain my back reclines;
And woodbine's twisted fragrance there
In many a yellow cluster shines;
The lonesome bees that hither stray
Seem travellers that lose their way.

The speedy hawthorn, first of all
To show the spring its tender green,

Here in the way, where branches fall
Thornless and smooth, is vulgar seen;
Yet in its roots of safety sure
The rabbit burrow lies secure.

A quiet comes across the mind
With every ruffled thought subdued
When fields and light are left behind
And twilight leadeth through the wood;
Parting the branches as we go,
We sometimes meet a path below,

A little path that shadows plain
That other feet have gone before;
Yet through such boughs it creeps again
As if no feet could find it more;
Yet trodden on till nearly bare
It shows that feet oft trample there;

Where stickers stroll from day to day
And gather loads of rotten wood,
And poachers left in safety stray
When midnight wears its darkest mood;
When badgers howl and foxes bark,
Then plops the gun; the thicket dark

Seems frighted at unwonted sound,
That echo scarcely dares again
To call, but mutters slowly round
What day would answer loud and plain;
She seems in fear and dread to lie
When by their dens the badgers cry.

But day has naught to do with fears,
The green light every sound enjoys;
Boys on the woodside gate he hears
And echo shouts as well as boys;
They tumble down and laugh amain
And wonder who can laugh again.

I brush along—the rustling sound
Makes jay-birds scream and swop away,
A warning to the birds around
That danger rustles in the way;
The blackbird answers, but the rest
Start silent from each mossy nest,

So many—up one starts agen,
A blackbird with its spotted breast
From hazels o'er a badger's den;
Here's five warm eggs within the nest
With spots of brown and bluish grey;
No boys will find them out to-day.

Where open spots can meet the sky,
Sweet resting-places seldom found,
Wild strawberries entertain the eye
With crimson berry shining round,
Uncropt, unlooked-for, and unknown,
So birds have gardens of their own.

Hid round with taper ashen poles,
Where deep in earth the stoven shoots,
There grunting badgers burrow holes
And bare the twisted mossy roots;
In the fresh mould are plainly seen
Footmarks when daylight hurried in.

A noise in oaks above the head
Keeps tapping on from day to day;
Woodpeckers' nests are nearly made,
And patient carpenters are they;
In hardest oaks their whimbles go
And dust like sawdust lies below.

Where ashen stovens taper grow,
The squirrels' nest upon the top

Is seen—and if one shakes below,
From branch to branch they out and hop,
And up the oak trunks, mealy white,
They're in a moment out of sight.

Those sweet excesses oft will start
When happy feelings cross the mind,
That fill with calmness all the heart
When all around one boughs are twined,
When naught but green leaves fill the eye
When brushing ash and hazel by,

Cornel and thorn and spindle tree,
And hazel with the nuts in bud,
And crab and lime that well agree
To make a host of underwood;
It doth one's spirits good to go
Through beds of fern that fan below.

The rustle that the branches make
While giving way to let me through,
The leaves that for a moment shake
As out a blackbird hasty flew—
Oh, there is stillness in the noise
That brings to quiet many joys.

Yes, as the bouncing branches start
And backward hurry to their place,
A rapture rushes at the heart,
A joy comes flushing in the face;
I feel so glad I can't explain
My joy, and on I rush again.

And now I meet a stoven full
Of clinging woodbines all in flower;
They look so rich and beautiful—
Though loath to spoil so sweet a bower—
My fingers itch to pull them down
To take a handful to the town.

So then I mix their showy bloom
With many pleasant-looking things,
And fern leaves in my posy come;
And then so beautifully clings
The heart-leaved bryony round the tree,
It too must in a posy be.

Enchanter's nightshade, some few sprigs
—So sweet a spot it blossoms in—
And within reach the leafiest twigs
Of oak, if such my reach can win;
And still unwilling to give o'er
I stoop till I can hold no more.

Then by the sun I homeward stray,
And then the woodman at his toil
I hear him chop and guess the way,
Who when I reach the side will smile
And wonder why a man should roam
And take such childish trifles home.