 | The Poems of John Clare |  |
A HARVEST MORNING
The mist hangs thick about the early field,And many a shout is heard while naught appears
Till close upon the gaze, so thick concealed
Are things in morning's mist—mayhap her tears
For summer's sad departure. Silence hears
Brown harvest's ditties that disturb full soon
Her rest—toil's lusty brawl that daily cheers
Its ignorance of sorrow with the boon
Of pastoral tunes. Ere morn's red sun appears,
Till dreary evening's ruddy harvest moon
Hangs its red lamp to light them home again,
The little children in their harvest dress
Among the stubs of trifling ills complain.
| The Poems of John Clare | |