Search

Search results

Contemplative, John Clare, in English Clear filters

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.
ContemplativeJohn Clare

The Flood

Waves trough, rebound, and furious boil again, Like plunging monsters rising underneath, Who at the top curl up a shaggy mane, A moment catching at a surer breath, Then plunging headlong down and down, and on Each following whirls the shadow of the last; And other monsters rise when those are gone, Crest their fringed waves, plunge onward and are past. The chill air comes around me oceanly, From bank to bank the waterstrife is spread; Strange birds like snowspots oer the whizzing sea Hang where the wild duck hurried past and fled. On roars the flood, all restless to be free, Like Trouble wandering to Eternity.
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.
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,
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.
ContemplativeJohn Clare

The Old Year

The Old Year's gone away To nothingness and night: We cannot find him all the day Nor hear him in the night: He left no footstep, mark or place In either shade or sun: The last year he'd a neighbour's face, In this he's known by none. All nothing everywhere: Mists we on mornings see Have more of substance when they're here And more of form than he. He was a friend by every fire, In every cot and hall-- A guest to every heart's desire, And now he's nought at all.
ContemplativeJohn Clare

Stonepit

The passing traveller with wonder sees A deep and ancient stonepit full of trees; So deep and very deep the place has been, The church might stand within and not be seen. The passing stranger oft with wonder stops And thinks he een could walk upon their tops, And often stoops to see the busy crow, And stands above and sees the eggs below; And while the wild horse gives its head a toss, The squirrel dances up and runs across. The boy that stands and kills the black nosed bee Dares down as soon as magpies' nests are found, And wonders when he climbs the highest tree To find it reaches scarce above the ground.
ContemplativeJohn Clare

Country Letter

Dear brother robin this comes from us all With our kind love and could Gip write and all Though but a dog he'd have his love to spare For still he knows and by your corner chair The moment he comes in he lyes him down and seems to fancy you are in the town. This leaves us well in health thank God for that For old acquaintance Sue has kept your hat Which mother brushes ere she lays it bye and every sunday goes upstairs to cry Jane still is yours till you come back agen and neer so much as dances with the men and ned the woodman every week comes in and asks about you kindly as our kin and he with this and goody Thompson sends Remembrances with those of all our friends
ContemplativeJohn Clare

Young Lambs

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.
ContemplativeJohn Clare

The Old Cottagers

The little cottage stood alone, the pride Of solitude surrounded every side. Bean fields in blossom almost reached the wall; A garden with its hawthorn hedge was all The space between.--Green light did pass Through one small window, where a looking-glass Placed in the parlour, richly there revealed A spacious landscape and a blooming field. The pasture cows that herded on the moor Printed their footsteps to the very door, Where little summer flowers with seasons blow And scarcely gave the eldern leave to grow. The cuckoo that one listens far away Sung in the orchard trees for half the day; And where the robin lives, the village guest, In the old weedy hedge the leafy nest

Describe a feeling — we’ll find a poem

Or try: