 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
127
THE WOODLAND STILE
When one's been walking in the open plain,Where the sun ne'er winks his eye, 'tis sweet awhile
To meet the shadows of a narrow lane
Or quiet arbour of a woodland stile,
To sit and hear the little bees complain
Among the woodbine blossoms o'er their toil,
And the hoarse murmurs of the distant swain,
Driving his horses o'er the sunburnt soil;
While shadows hide me and leaves entertain
My fancies with their freaks around my seat,
Dancing and whispering with the wooing wind
Like lovers o'er their secrets; while the heat
Glimmers without and can no passage find
To hurt the joys which rest so longed to meet.
| The Poems of John Clare | |