Summer

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.

John Clare

The Skylark

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 again

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.

John Clare

To Mary

I SLEEP with thee, and wake with thee,

And yet thou art not there;

I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,

And press the common air.

Thy eyes are gazing upon mine

When thou art out of sight;

My lips are always touching thine

At morning, noon, and night.

I think and speak of other things

To keep my mind at rest,

But still to thee my memory clings

Like love in woman's breast.

I hide it from the world's wide eye

And think and speak contrary,

But soft the wind comes from the sky

And whispers tales of Mary.

The night-wind whispers in my ear,

The moon shines on my face;

The burden still of chilling fear

I find in every place.

The breeze is whispering in the bush,

And the leaves fall from the tree,

All sighing on, and will not hush,

Some pleasant tales of thee.

John Clare

The Winter's Spring

THE winter comes; I walk alone,

I want no bird to sing;

To those who keep their hearts their own

The winter is the spring.

No flowers to please--no bees to hum--

The coming spring's already come.

I never want the Christmas rose

To come before its time;

The seasons, each as God bestows,

Are simple and sublime.

I love to see the snowstorm hing;

'Tis but the winter garb of spring.

I never want the grass to bloom:

The snowstorm's best in white.

I love to see the tempest come

And love its piercing light.

The dazzled eyes that love to cling

O'er snow-white meadows sees the spring.

I love the snow, the crumpling snow

That hangs on everything,

It covers everything below

Like white dove's brooding wing,

A landscape to the aching sight,

A vast expanse of dazzling light.

It is the foliage of the woods

That winters bring--the dress,

White Easter of the year in bud,

That makes the winter Spring.

The frost and snow his posies bring,

Nature's white spurts of the spring.

John Clare

Schoolboys in Winter

THE schoolboys still their morning ramble take

To neighboring village school with playing speed,

Loitering with passtime's leisure till they quake,

Oft looking up the wild-geese droves to heed,

Watching the letters which their journeys make;

Or plucking haws on which their fieldfares feed,

And hips and sloes; and on each shallow lake

Making glib slides, where they like shadows go

Till some fresh passtimes in their minds awake.

Then off they start anew and hasty blow

Their numbed and clumpsing fingers till they glow;

Then races with their shadows wildly run

That stride huge giants o'er the shining snow

In the pale splendour of the winter sun.

John Clare

Meet Me in the Green Glen

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.

John Clare

The Badger

WHEN midnight comes a host of dogs and men

Go out and track the badger to his den,

And put a sack within the hole and lie

Till the old grunting badger passes by.

He comes and hears - they let the strongest loose.

The old fox hears the noise and drops the goose.

The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,

And the old hare half wounded buzzes by.

They get a forkéd stick to bear him down

And clap the dogs and take him to the town,

And bait him all the day with many dogs,

And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.

He runs along and bites at all he meets:

They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.

He turns about to face the loud uproar

And drives the rebels to their very door.

The frequent stone is hurled wher'er they go;

When badgers fight, then everyone's a foe.

The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray;

The badger turns and drives them all away.

Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,

He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all.

The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,

Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.

The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold

The badger grins and never leaves his hold.

He drives the crowd and follows at their heels

And bites them through - the drunkard swears and reels.

The frighted women take the boys away,

The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.

He tries to reach the woods, an awkward race,

But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.

He turns again and drives the noisy crowd

And beats the many dogs in noises loud.

He drives away and beats them every one,

And then they loose them all and set them on.

He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,

Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;

Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies

And leaves his hold and cackles, groans and dies.

John Clare