John Clare’s speaker notices the many small signs that spring is arriving. The haystack’s old fence has been taken down, leaving a weathered wooden relic shining in the light. Where the sun reaches sheltered nooks, early buttercups open — first just one or two glittering stars, then so many they gild the edges of blackthorn bushes with gold. Soon, a lamb pops up from behind a hill and wags its tail, hurrying to meet its mother. Another lamb lies stretched out on the ground, so still and relaxed it could be mistaken for dead. The speaker can walk right up to it, and it doesn’t flinch — it just lies there, baking in the sun, legs sprawled as if it cannot be bothered to rise. The mood is tender, unhurried, and deeply quiet. There’s real warmth here, both from the sun and from the speaker’s gentle attention to these fragile, drowsy signs of new life.
Young Lambs — Summary
The spring is coming by a many signs; The trays are up, the hedges broken down, That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines Like some old antique fragment weathered brown. And where suns peep, in every sheltered place, The little early buttercups unfold A glittering star or two--till many trace The edges of the blackthorn clumps in gold. And then a little lamb bolts up behind The hill and wags his tail to meet the yoe, And then another, sheltered from the wind, Lies all his length as dead--and lets me go Close bye and never stirs but baking lies, With legs stretched out as though he could not rise.