The Flitting (VI)


And still they bloom as on the day
They first crowned wilderness and rock,
When Abel haply wreathed with may
The firstlings of his little flock,
And Eve might from the matted thorn
To deck her lone and lovely brow
Reach that same rose that heedless scorn
Misnames as the dog rosey now.

Give me no high-flown fangled things,
No haughty pomp in marching chime,
Where muses play on golden strings
And splendour passes for sublime,
Where cities stretch as far as fame
And fancy's straining eye can go,
And piled until the sky for shame
Is stooping far away below.

I love the verse that mild and bland
Breathes of green fields and open sky,
I love the muse that in her hand
Bears flowers of native poesy;
Who walks nor skips the pasture brook
In scorn, but by the drinking horse
Leans oer its little brig to look
How far the sallows lean across,

And feels a rapture in her breast
Upon their root-fringed grains to mark
A hermit morehen's sedgy nest
Just like a naiad's summer bark.
She counts the eggs she cannot reach
Admires the spot and loves it well,
And yearns, so nature's lessons teach,
Amid such neighbourhoods to dwell.
(tbc) Posted by Hello

5 comments:

Anonymous said...

Simply a beautiful photo,in full concordance with:
"I love the verse that mild and bland
Breathes of green fields and open sky,
I love the muse that in her hand
Bears flowers of native poesy;..."

Ah! to be presently in the place which breathes of green fields and open sky.
Thank you, Roger.

Donald Kurtz said...

Do you know where I might find an image of the John Clare portrait- sculpture by Henry Behnes Burlowe?
Thanks
Donald Kurtz

Jack Naka said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Look Here said...

I'm sure the last Stanza is actually,

Time looks on pomp with vengeful mood
Or killing apathy's disdain;
So where old marble cities stood
Poor persecuted weeds remain.
She feels love for little things
That very few can feel beside,
And still the grass eternal springs
Where castles stood and grandeur died.

Roger R. said...

Absolutely my friend... and if you look at the next posting you will see the final part of the poem.

(tbc) means 'to be continued'

Rpger R.