Buttercup heaven

How sweet when weary dropping on a bank

Turning a look around on things that be

Een feather headed grasses spindling rank

A trembling to the breeze one loves to see

& yellow buttercups where many a bee

Comes buzzing to its head & bows it down

& the great dragon flye wi gauzy wings

In gilded coat of purple green or brown

That on broad leaves of hazel basking clings

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Image by my friend #JohnAbbott

Strange scenes

Strange scenes mere shadows are to me
Vague impersonifying things
I love with my old haunts to be
By quiet woods & gravel springs
Where little pebbles wear as smooth
As hermits beads by gentle floods
Whose noises do my spirits soothe
& warm them into singing moods

Here every tree is strange to me
All foreign things where eer I go
Theres none where boyhood made a swee
Or clambered up to rob a crow
No hollow tree or woodland bower
Well known when joy was beating high
Where beauty ran to shun a shower
& love took pains to keep her dry

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Low fly the barn owls

The dew falls on flowers in a mist o' small rain 
& beating the hedges low fly the barn owls 
The moon wi her horns is low peeping again 
& deep in the forest the dog badger howls 
In best bib and tucker then wanders my Jane 
By the side o' the woodbines which grow in the lane 
On a sweet summer Eve tide I walk by her side 
In green hood the daiseys have shut up their eyes 
Young Jenny is handsome wi'out any pride 
Her eyes oh how bright have the hue o' the skies

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Memory of love

Her face to me was memory for life
Her looks her ways in winning forms would steal
& left a pain I never ceased to feel
Her very voice would memory’s partner be
& music lingered in the sound with me
Her troubling form was long about my sight
O’er day dreams dozing or in sleep by night
My dreams wore constantly that pleasing pain
The face of her I loved & could not gain

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Fox

The happy time of singing birds is come
& loves lone pilgrimage now finds a home
Among the mossy oaks now coos the dove
& the hoarse crow finds softer notes for love
The foxes play around their dens & bark 
In joys excess mid woodland shadows dark
The flowers join lips below the leaves above
& every sound that meets the ear is love

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Wild flower in the dells

She sees the wild flower in the dells 
That in my rambles shine 
The sky that oer her homstead dwells 
Looks sunny over mine 
The cloud that passes where she dwells 
In less then half an hour 
Darkens around these orchard dells 
Or melts a sudden shower

The wind that leaves the sunny south 
& fans the orchard tree 
Might steal the kisses from her mouth 
& waft her voice to me

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To the Butterflye

Lovley insect haste away 
Greet once more the sunny day
Leave o leave the mirky barn 
Ere trapping spiders thee discern
If they do they will beset 
Thy golden wings in filmy net
Then alls in vain to set thee free 
Hopes all lost for Liberty 

Soon theyl drag thee in the wall 
Suck thy downy form and all
Murder tho a base employ 
Tis the spiders only joy 
Then lovley insect haste away 
Greet once more the sunny day
Never think that I belie
Never fear a [summer] skie

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The Rose of the World

The Rose Of The World Was Dear Mary To Me
In The Days Of My Boyhood & Youth
I Told Her In Songs Where My Heart Wished To Be
& My Songs Were The Language of Truth
I Told Her In Looks When I Gazed In Her Eyes
That Mary Was Dearest To Me

I Told Her In Words & The Language Of Sighs
Where My Whole Hearts Affections Would Be
I Told her in love that all nature was true
I convinced her that nature was kind
But love in his trials had labour to do
Mary would be in the mind

Mary met me in spring where the speedwell knots grew
& the king cups were shining like flame
I chose her all colours red yellow & blue
But my love was one hue & the same
Spring summer & winter & all the year through
In the sunshine the shower & the blast
I told the same tale & she knows it all true
& Mary's my blossom at last

Lines 1139-1158 of 'Child Harold' - Spring 1841 in High Beech, Epping) - The poem where Clare stopped capitalising every word – no-one knows why he started, nor why he ceased, doing so.

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A walk on High Beech, Loughton

I loved the Forest walks and beechen woods,
Where pleasant Stockdale showed me far away
Wild Enfield Chase, and pleasant Edmonton;
While Giant London, known to all the world,
Was nothing but a guess among the trees,
Though only half a day from where we stood.
Such is ambition! only great at home,
And hardly known to quiet and repose.
I loved the Forest walk, and often stood
To hear boys halloo to their wilder sheep;
While quiet Turner sat upon a hill,
And gentle Howard cut his sticks and sang.
The Sticker trailed her faggot on the ground,
And all the Forest seemed to live with joy

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Nell

The sun was low sinking behind the far trees
& crossing the path humming home were the bees
& darker & darker it grew by degrees
& crows they flockd quawking to rest
When unknown to her parents Nell slove on her hat
& oer the fields hurried - scarce knew she for what
But her sweetheart in taking advantage & that
Had kissd & had promisd the best

Poor maidens of husbands so much they conceit
The daisy scarce touchd rose unhurt from her feet
So eager she hastend her lover to meet
As to make him to wait was unjust
On the wood dim discovers she fixed her eyes
Such a queer spot to meet in suspicions might rise
But the fond word “a sweetheart” such goodness implies
Ah who would a lover distrust

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A pansy

It does me good thou flower of spring

Thy blossoms to behold
Thou bloomst when birds begin to sing
In purple & in gold
Along the garden-beds so neat
Thy flowers their blooms display
When sparrows chirp & lambkins bleat
& hopes look up for May

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Politicians lies

In politics & politicians lies
The modern farmer waxes wondrous wise
Opinionates with wisdom all compact
& een could tell a nation how to act
Throws light on darkness with excessive skill
Knows who acts well & whose designs are ill
Proves half the members nought but briberys tools
& calls the past a dull dark age of fools

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from The Topers Rant

Give me an old crone of a fellow
Who loves to drink ale in a horn,
And sing racy songs when he's mellow,
Which topers sung ere he was born.

For such a friend fate shall be thankèd,
And, line but our pockets with brass,
We'd sooner suck ale through a blanket
Than thimbles of wine from a glass.

Away with your proud thimble-glasses
Of wine foreign nations supply,
A toper ne'er drinks to the lasses
O'er a draught scarce enough for a fly.

Club me with the hedger and ditcher
Or beggar that makes his own horn,
To join o'er an old gallon pitcher
Foaming o'er with the essence of corn.

I care not with whom I get tipsy
Or where with brown stout I regale,
I'll weather the storm with a gipsy
If he be a lover of ale.

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Rural sports of May

Dear to him the rural sports of May
When each cot-threshold mounts its hailing bough
& ruddy milkmaids weave their garlands gay
Upon the green to crown the earliest cow
When mirth & pleasure wear a joyful brow
& join the tumult with unbounded glee
The humble tenants of the pail & plough
He lov'd "old sports," by them reviv'd, to see
But never car'd to join in their rude revelry

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The lonely lake

I love to see the old heaths withered brake
Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze & ling
While the old heron from the lonely lake
Starts slow & flaps his melancholy wing
& oddling crow in idle motions swing
On the half rotten ashtrees topmost twig
Beside whose trunk the gipsy makes his bed
Up flies the bouncing woodcock from the brig
Where a black quagmire quakes beneath the tread
The fieldfares chatter in the whistling thorn
& for the awe round fields & closen rove
& coy bumbarrels twenty in a drove
Flit down the hedgerows in the frozen plain
& hang on little twigs & start again

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Iris by the pool

The summer morn is beautifull   In crimson & in blue 
So is the Iris by the pool   Besprent wi' firey dew 
The sedge birds song is beautifull   I’th’' rustle of the reed 
The river neath the Willows cool   Flows with the sweetest speed 
But Lucy o' Northampton town   Is sweeter far than these 
Than golden Chain & Sattin gown.  & songs o' honey bees 
Sweet Lucy o' Northampton town   So bonny & so fair 
With red rose cheeks & hair so brown   How beautifull you are 

Then meadow sweet and burnet too   How finer far to see 
Sweeter than sweetbrier pearled wi dew   You are my dear to me

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Green sunny green

I lean upon the window-sill
The trees & summer happy seem
Green sunny green they shine but still
My heart goes far away to dream
Of happiness & thoughts arise
With home-bred pictures many a one,
Green lanes that shut out burning skies
& old crook'd stiles to rest upon

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Mortal decay

On a fine Sunday morning the house swep so clean
And a flower pot for ornament plac'd
Compos'd of oak branches so spreading and green
Intermingled with blue-bells the window-board grac'd.
To view their gay colors I rather inclin'd
While resting myself near the wall
Which soon brought morality into my mind
And thus I had model'd their fall.

‘Tho your charms seem so tempting ye gay blooming flowers
‘As to make every stranger look on
‘Yet if I stay here three or four passing hours
‘I shall see you all whither'd and gone!’
But afterwards thinking on what I had said
Reflection soon made me to sigh
And once more reviewing their sweet smelling shade
I suppos'd from the flowers this reply.

‘Vain unthinking mortal how ready thou'rt prone
‘To condemn the short date of our flowers
‘But stop with thy morals—turn the case to thine own!
‘And thou'l find it a deal worse than our's.’
‘For go where thou pluck't us next year o'er the ground
‘There thou'lt find us as gay as before!
‘But when once moralizer thy spring's gone its round
‘It never will blossom no more!’

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A fragment

A few years ago I was flying out to Tunis visiting family, I sat next to a lady who was very interested in what I was reading... John Clare.  I showed her these small fragments on my iPad, and she promptly photographed the screen.  The power of even Clare's shortest fragmentary poems!

Natures sweet bard of spring the sable bee
Hums round each cottage wall its minstrelsy

& the gay wasp in its stript jacket comes

To sunny banks in terryfying hums

Waking the herd boys fears that ramble nigh

& threatning vengance to each passer bye

Swarthy yet lovly by each zepher fan'd
As the soft cheek of milkmaids summer tan'd

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Down the lane

Now rising ground permits the plain 
To change the restless view
The pathways leading down the lane 
My pleasures still renew
The osiers slender shade is by
& bushes thickly spread
Again the ground is firm & dry
Nor trembles neath the tread

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The ant

What wonder strikes the curious while he views

The black ants city by a rotten tree

Or woodland bank! In ignorance we muse

Pausing annoyed -- we know not what we see
Such government & thought there seem to be
Some looking on & urging some to toil
Dragging their loads of bent-stalks slavishly
& whats more wonderful when big loads foil
One ant or two to carry quickly then
A swarm flock round to help their fellow-men
Surely they speak a language whisperingly
Too fine for us to hear & sure their ways
Prove they have kings and laws & that they be
Deformed remnants of the Fairy-days

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Crossing a brook

Wereover many a stile neeth willows grey 

The winding footpath leaves the public way
Free from the dusty din & ceasless chime
Of bustling waggons in the summer time
Crossing a brook—were braving storms in vain
Two willows fell & still for brigs remain
Corn field & clover closes leading down
In peacful windings to the neighbouring town

Were on bridge wall or rail or trees smooth bark
The passing eye is often stopt to mark
The artless vanity of village swains
Who spend a leisure hour with patient pains
& put to sculptors purposes the knife
To spin a cobweb for an after life
Nicking the letters of their little names
In rudest forms that untaught science frames

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Sweet solitude

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 & 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
Gath'ring sweets from little flowers like stars

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Oak trees dancing

Oak trees dancing round & round 
Green was the shade—I love the woods 
When autumns wind is mourning loud 
To see the leaves float on the floods 
Dead within their yellow shroud 
The wood was then in glory spread 
I love the browning bough to see 
That litters autumns dying bed 
Her latest sigh is dear to me 
Neath a spreading shady oak 
For awhile to muse I lay 
From its grains a bough I broke 
To fan the teasing flies away

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The Orchis

I saw it in the evening sun & in the morning dew 
I saw't o evenings i' the week Each sunday i' the year 
& purposed journeys came to seek When orchis flowers appear 
O they are clods that never seek For true loves living powers 
When beans grow up as green as leeks I hunt the Orchis flower

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Sunset so golden

The scene it was cheery when I met my deary

In even’s cool mantle of dew
T’was heaven unfolding in sunset so golden
But ah it was sweeter far sweeter beholding
Fond love at its first interview

O fond loves excesses the heart how it blesses
Wi the jem of our raptures in view
We fancy none fairer we fancy none dearer
There may be as true but we think none sincerer
Loves sketches are perfectly drew

But fancy is waining & love is complaining
Of beautys that time weareth thro
Summers day may be golden ripe flowers sweet beholding
But the honey of sweetness is springs bliss unfolding
Wi tender loves first interview

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