John Clare

Just by the wooden brig a bird flew up, Frit by the cowboy as he scrambled down To reach the misty dewberry—let us stoop And seek its nest—the brook we need not dread, 'Tis scarcely deep enough a bee to drown, So it sings harmless o'er its pebbly bed —Ay here it is, stuck close beside the bank Beneath the bunch of grass that spindles rank Its husk seeds tall and high—'tis rudely planned Of bleachèd stubbles and the withered fare That last year's harvest left upon the land, Lined thinly with the horse's sable hair. Five eggs, pen-scribbled o'er with ink their shells Resembling writing scrawls which fancy reads As nature's poesy and pastoral spells— They are the yellowhammer's and she dwells Most poet-like where brooks and flowery weeds As sweet as Castaly to fancy seems And that old molehill like as Parnass' hill On which her partner haply sits and dreams O'er all her joys of song—so leave it still A happy home of sunshine, flowers and streams. Yet in the sweetest places cometh ill, A noisome weed that burthens every soil; For snakes are known with chill and deadly coil To watch such nests and seize the helpless young, And like as though the plague became a guest, Leaving a houseless home, a ruined nest— And mournful hath the little warblers sung When such like woes hath rent its little breast.

Well, honest John, how fare you now at home? The spring is come, and birds are building nests; The old cock-robin to the sty is come, With olive feathers and its ruddy breast; And the old cock, with wattles and red comb, Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best, Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs, Swept out by little folks an hour ago; The pigs sleep in the sty; the bookman comes— The little boy lets home-close nesting go, And pockets tops and taws, where daisies blow, To look at the new number just laid down, With lots of pictures, and good stories too, And Jack the Giant-killer's high renown.

Now swarthy Summer, by rude health embrowned, Precedence takes of rosy fingered Spring; And laughing Joy, with wild flowers prank'd, and crown'd, A wild and giddy thing, And Health robust, from every care unbound, Come on the zephyr's wing, And cheer the toiling clown. Happy as holiday-enjoying face, Loud tongued, and "merry as a marriage bell," Thy lightsome step sheds joy in every place; And where the troubled dwell, Thy witching charms wean them of half their cares; And from thy sunny spell, They greet joy unawares. Then with thy sultry locks all loose and rude, And mantle laced with gems of garish light, Come as of wont; for I would fain intrude, And in the world's despite, Share the rude wealth that thy own heart beguiles; If haply so I might Win pleasure from thy smiles. Me not the noise of brawling pleasure cheers, In nightly revels or in city streets; But joys which soothe, and not distract the ears, That one at leisure meets In the green woods, and meadows summer-shorn, Or fields, where bee-fly greets The ear with mellow horn. The green-swathed grasshopper, on treble pipe, Sings there, and dances, in mad-hearted pranks; There bees go courting every flower that's ripe, On baulks and sunny banks; And droning dragon-fly, on rude bassoon, Attempts to give God thanks In no discordant tune. The speckled thrush, by self-delight embued, There sings unto himself for joy's amends, And drinks the honey dew of solitude. There Happiness attends With inbred Joy until the heart o'erflow, Of which the world's rude friends, Nought heeding, nothing know. There the gay river, laughing as it goes, Plashes with easy wave its flaggy sides, And to the calm of heart, in calmness shows What pleasure there abides, To trace its sedgy banks, from trouble free: Spots Solitude provides To muse, and happy be. There ruminating 'neath some pleasant bush, On sweet silk grass I stretch me at mine ease, Where I can pillow on the yielding rush; And, acting as I please, Drop into pleasant dreams; or musing lie, Mark the wind-shaken trees, And cloud-betravelled sky. There think me how some barter joy for care, And waste life's summer-health in riot rude, Of nature, nor of nature's sweets aware. When passions vain intrude, These, by calm musings, softened are and still; And the heart's better mood Feels sick of doing ill. There I can live, and at my leisure seek Joys far from cold restraints—not fearing pride— Free as the winds, that breathe upon my cheek Rude health, so long denied. Here poor Integrity can sit at ease, And list self-satisfied The song of honey-bees. The green lane now I traverse, where it goes Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies Rude batter'd finger post, that stooping shows Where the snug mystery lies; And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown, Cheers up the short surprise, And shows a peeping town. I see the wild flowers, in their summer morn Of beauty, feeding on joy's luscious hours; The gay convolvulus, wreathing round the thorn, Agape for honey showers; And slender kingcup, burnished with the dew Of morning's early hours, Like gold yminted new. And mark by rustic bridge, o'er shallow stream, Cow-tending boy, to toil unreconciled, Absorbed as in some vagrant summer dream; Who now, in gestures wild, Starts dancing to his shadow on the wall, Feeling self-gratified, Nor fearing human thrall. Or thread the sunny valley laced with streams, Or forests rude, and the o'ershadow'd brims Of simple ponds, where idle shepherd dreams, Stretching his listless limbs; Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and long, Where joy's wild impulse swims In one continued song. I love at early morn, from new mown swath, To see the startled frog his route pursue; To mark while, leaping o'er the dripping path, His bright sides scatter dew, The early lark that from its bustle flies, To hail his matin new; And watch him to the skies. To note on hedgerow baulks, in moisture sprent, The jetty snail creep from the mossy thorn, With earnest heed, and tremulous intent, Frail brother of the morn, That from the tiny bent's dew-misted leaves Withdraws his timid horn, And fearful vision weaves. Or swallow heed on smoke-tanned chimney top, Wont to be first unsealing Morning's eye, Ere yet the bee hath gleaned one wayward drop Of honey on his thigh; To see him seek morn's airy couch to sing, Until the golden sky Bepaint his russet wing. Or sauntering boy by tanning corn to spy, With clapping noise to startle birds away, And hear him bawl to every passer by To know the hour of day; While the uncradled breezes, fresh and strong, With waking blossoms play, And breathe Æolian song. I love the south-west wind, or low or loud, And not the less when sudden drops of rain Moisten my glowing cheek from ebon cloud, Threatening soft showers again, That over lands new ploughed and meadow grounds, Summer's sweet breath unchain, And wake harmonious sounds. Rich music breathes in Summer's every sound; And in her harmony of varied greens, Woods, meadows, hedge-rows, corn-fields, all around Much beauty intervenes, Filling with harmony the ear and eye; While o'er the mingling scenes Far spreads the laughing sky. See, how the wind-enamoured aspen leaves Turn up their silver lining to the sun! And hark! the rustling noise, that oft deceives, And makes the sheep-boy run: The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers, He thinks the rain's begun, And hastes to sheltering bowers. But now the evening curdles dank and grey, Changing her watchet hue for sombre weed; And moping owls, to close the lids of day, On drowsy wing proceed; While chickering crickets, tremulous and long, Light's farewell inly heed, And give it parting song. The pranking bat its flighty circlet makes; The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew; O'er meadows dew-besprent, the beetle wakes Inquiries ever new, Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain, As wanting to pursue His homeward path again. Hark! 'tis the melody of distant bells That on the wind with pleasing hum rebounds By fitful starts, then musically swells O'er the dim stilly grounds; While on the meadow-bridge the pausing boy Listens the mellow sounds, And hums in vacant joy. Now homeward-bound, the hedger bundles round His evening faggot, and with every stride His leathern doublet leaves a rustling sound, Till silly sheep beside His path start tremulous, and once again Look back dissatisfied, And scour the dewy plain. How sweet the soothing calmness that distills O'er the heart's every sense its opiate dews, In meek-eyed moods and ever balmy trills! That softens and subdues, With gentle Quiet's bland and sober train, Which dreamy eve renews In many a mellow strain! I love to walk the fields, they are to me A legacy no evil can destroy; They, like a spell, set every rapture free That cheer'd me when a boy. Play—pastime—all Time's blotting pen conceal'd, Comes like a new-born joy, To greet me in the field. For Nature's objects ever harmonize With emulous Taste, that vulgar deed annoys; Which loves in pensive moods to sympathize, And meet vibrating joys O'er Nature's pleasing things; nor slighting, deems Pastimes, the Muse employs, Vain and obtrusive themes.

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come, For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom, And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest, And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast; She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair, And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair; I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest, And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast. The clock-a-clay is creeping on the open bloom of May, The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day, And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover's breast; I'll lean upon her breast and I'll whisper in her ear That I cannot get a wink o'sleep for thinking of my dear; I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.

The rolls and harrows lie at rest beside The battered road; and spreading far and wide Above the russet clods, the corn is seen Sprouting its spiry points of tender green, Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake, Like some brown clod the harrows failed to break. Opening their golden caskets to the sun, The buttercups make schoolboys eager run, To see who shall be first to pluck the prize— Up from their hurry, see, the skylark flies, And o'er her half-formed nest, with happy wings Winnows the air, till in the cloud she sings, Then hangs a dust-spot in the sunny skies, And drops, and drops, till in her nest she lies, Which they unheeded passed—not dreaming then That birds which flew so high would drop agen To nests upon the ground, which anything May come at to destroy. Had they the wing Like such a bird, themselves would be too proud, And build on nothing but a passing cloud! As free from danger as the heavens are free From pain and toil, there would they build and be, And sail about the world to scenes unheard Of and unseen—Oh, were they but a bird! So think they, while they listen to its song, And smile and fancy and so pass along; While its low nest, moist with the dews of morn, Lies safely, with the leveret, in the corn.

Love, meet me in the green glen, Beside the tall elm-tree, Where the sweetbriar smells so sweet agen; There come with me. Meet me in the green glen. Meet me at the sunset Down in the green glen, Where we’ve often met By hawthorn-tree and foxes’ den, Meet me in the green glen. Meet me in the green glen, By sweetbriar bushes there; Meet me by your own sen, Where the wild thyme blossoms fair. Meet me in the green glen. Meet me by the sweetbriar, By the mole-hill swelling there; When the west glows like a fire God’s crimson bed is there. Meet me in the green glen.

Love lives beyond The tomb, the earth, which fades like dew— I love the fond, The faithful, and the true Love lives in sleep, 'Tis happiness of healthy dreams Eve’s dews may weep, But love delightful seems. 'Tis seen in flowers, And in the even's pearly dew On earth's green hours, And in the heaven's eternal blue. ‘Tis heard in spring When light and sunbeams, warm and kind, On angels’ wing Bring love and music to the wind. And where is voice, So young, so beautiful and sweet As nature’s choice, Where Spring and lovers meet? Love lives beyond The tomb, the earth, the flowers, and dew. I love the fond, The faithful, young and true.

I hid my love when young till I Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly; I hid my love to my despite Till I could not bear to look at light: I dare not gaze upon her face But left her memory in each place; Where'er I saw a wild flower lie I kissed and bade my love good-bye. I met her in the greenest dells, Where dewdrops pearl the wood bluebells; The lost breeze kissed her bright blue eye, The bee kissed and went singing by, A sunbeam found a passage there, A gold chain round her neck so fair; As secret as the wild bee's song She lay there all the summer long. I hid my love in field and town Till e'en the breeze would knock me down; The bees seemed singing ballads o'er, The fly's bass turned a lion's roar; And even silence found a tongue, To haunt me all the summer long; The riddle nature could not prove Was nothing else but secret love.

I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems; Even the dearest that I loved the best Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest. I long for scenes where man hath never trod A place where woman never smiled or wept There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Untroubling and untroubled where I lie The grass below—above the vaulted sky.

I ne’er was struck before that hour With love so sudden and so sweet, Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower And stole my heart away complete. My face turned pale as deadly pale, My legs refused to walk away, And when she looked, what could I ail? My life and all seemed turned to clay. And then my blood rushed to my face And took my eyesight quite away, The trees and bushes round the place Seemed midnight at noonday. I could not see a single thing, Words from my eyes did start— They spoke as chords do from the string, And blood burnt round my heart. Are flowers the winter’s choice? Is love’s bed always snow? She seemed to hear my silent voice, Not love's appeals to know. I never saw so sweet a face As that I stood before. My heart has left its dwelling-place And can return no more.