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John Clare, nature, in English Clear filters

CheerfulJohn Clare

Dyke Side

The frog croaks loud, and maidens dare not pass But fear the noisome toad and shun the grass; And on the sunny banks they dare not go Where hissing snakes run to the flood below. The nuthatch noises loud in wood and wild, Like women turning skreeking to a child. The schoolboy hears and brushes through the trees And runs about till drabbled to the knees. The old hawk winnows round the old crow's nest; The schoolboy hears and wonder fills his breast. He throws his basket down to climb the tree And wonders what the red blotched eggs can be: The green woodpecker bounces from the view And hollos as he buzzes bye "kew kew."
ContemplativeJohn Clare

Birds in Alarm

The firetail tells the boys when nests are nigh And tweets and flies from every passer-bye. The yellowhammer never makes a noise But flies in silence from the noisy boys; The boys will come and take them every day, And still she lays as none were ta'en away. The nightingale keeps tweeting-churring round But leaves in silence when the nest is found. The pewit hollos "chewrit" as she flies And flops about the shepherd where he lies; But when her nest is found she stops her song And cocks [her] coppled crown and runs along. Wrens cock their tails and chitter loud and play, And robins hollo "tut" and fly away.
CheerfulJohn Clare

Signs of Winter

The cat runs races with her tail. The dog Leaps oer the orchard hedge and knarls the grass. The swine run round and grunt and play with straw, Snatching out hasty mouthfuls from the stack. Sudden upon the elmtree tops the crow Unceremonious visit pays and croaks, Then swops away. From mossy barn the owl Bobs hasty out--wheels round and, scared as soon, As hastily retires. The ducks grow wild And from the muddy pond fly up and wheel A circle round the village and soon, tired, Plunge in the pond again. The maids in haste Snatch from the orchard hedge the mizzled clothes And laughing hurry in to keep them dry.
ContemplativeJohn Clare

The Fear of Flowers

The nodding oxeye bends before the wind, The woodbine quakes lest boys their flowers should find, And prickly dogrose spite of its array Can't dare the blossom-seeking hand away, While thistles wear their heavy knobs of bloom Proud as a warhorse wears its haughty plume, And by the roadside danger's self defy; On commons where pined sheep and oxen lie In ruddy pomp and ever thronging mood It stands and spreads like danger in a wood, And in the village street where meanest weeds Can't stand untouched to fill their husks with seeds, The haughty thistle oer all danger towers, In every place the very wasp of flowers.
SadJohn Clare

Secret Love

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 eer 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 blue bells 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.
ContemplativeJohn Clare

From "A Rhapsody"

Sweet solitude, what joy to be alone-- In wild, wood-shady dell to stay for hours. Twould soften hearts if they were hard as stone To see glad butterflies and smiling flowers. Tis pleasant in these quiet lonely places, Where not the voice of man our pleasure mars, To see the little bees with coal black faces Gathering sweets from little flowers like stars. The wind seems calling, though not understood. A voice is speaking; hark, it louder calls. It echoes in the far-outstretching wood. First twas a hum, but now it loudly squalls; And then the pattering rain begins to fall, And it is hushed--the fern leaves scarcely shake, The tottergrass it scarcely stirs at all. And then the rolling thunder gets awake,
RomanticJohn Clare

Mary Bayfield

How beautiful the summer night When birds roost on the mossy tree, When moon and stars are shining bright And home has gone the weary bee! Then Mary Bayfield seeks the glen, The white hawthorn and grey oak tree, And nought but heaven can tell me then How dear thy beauty is to me. Dear is the dewdrop to the flower, The old wall to the weary bee, And silence to the evening hour, And ivy to the stooping tree. Dearer than these, than all beside, Than blossoms to the moss-rose tree, The maid who wanders by my side-- Sweet Mary Bayfield is to me.
CheerfulJohn Clare

The Crow Sat on the Willow

The crow sat on the willow tree A-lifting up his wings, And glossy was his coat to see, And loud the ploughman sings, "I love my love because I know The milkmaid she loves me"; And hoarsely croaked the glossy crow Upon the willow tree. "I love my love" the ploughman sung, And all the fields with music rung. "I love my love, a bonny lass, She keeps her pails so bright, And blythe she trips the dewy grass At morning and at night. A cotton dress her morning gown, Her face was rosy health:
ContemplativeJohn Clare

The Yellowhammer

When shall I see the white-thorn leaves agen, And yellowhammers gathering the dry bents By the dyke side, on stilly moor or fen, Feathered with love and nature's good intents? Rude is the tent this architect invents, Rural the place, with cart ruts by dyke side. Dead grass, horse hair, and downy-headed bents Tied to dead thistles--she doth well provide, Close to a hill of ants where cowslips bloom And shed oer meadows far their sweet perfume. In early spring, when winds blow chilly cold, The yellowhammer, trailing grass, will come To fix a place and choose an early home, With yellow breast and head of solid gold.
SadJohn Clare

Farewell

Farewell to the bushy clump close to the river And the flags where the butter-bump hides in for ever; Farewell to the weedy nook, hemmed in by waters; Farewell to the miller's brook and his three bonny daughters; Farewell to them all while in prison I lie-- In the prison a thrall sees nought but the sky. Shut out are the green fields and birds in the bushes; In the prison yard nothing builds, blackbirds or thrushes, Farewell to the old mill and dash of the waters, To the miller and, dearer still, to his three bonny daughters. In the nook, the large burdock grows near the green willow; In the flood, round the moorcock dashes under the billow; To the old mill farewell, to the lock, pens, and waters,

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