The orchis tribes

Haunting thy mossy steeps to botanize

& hunt the orchis tribes where natures skill

Doth like my thoughts run into phantasies

Spider & bee all mimicking at will

Displaying powers that fool the proudly wise

Showing the wonders of great natures plan

In trifles insignificant & small

Puzzling the power of that great trifle man

Who finds no reason to be proud at all

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from ‘Solitude’

   

    O how sweet I cannot tell
    With thee at that hour to dwell
    Stretchd the mossy bank beside
    Lye to view the random tide
    Where no clowns has chopt from thence
    Bush nor stake to mend his fence

    Cornerd stones & pebbles round
    Breaking dasht wi mellow sound
    Wether this or that to see
    I am blest if Im wi thee
    & full dear has been the hour
    Spent wi in thy noon day bower
    Prest wi thee thy mossy seat
    O its unexpressive sweet

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I remember it well

The green where I tended my sheep when a boy
Has yielded its pride to the plough

& the shades where my infancy revelled in joy
The axe has left desolate now

Yet a bush lingers still that invites me to stop
What heart can such whimsies withstand
Where Susan once saw a birds nest in its top
& I reached her the eggs with my hand

& so long since the day I remember it well
It has stretched to a sizable tree
& the birds yearly come in its branches to dwell
As far from a jiant as me

On a favourite spot by the side of a brook
When Susan was just in her prime
A ripe bunch of nutts from her apron she took
& planted them close by my side

It has grown up with years & on many a bough
Groweth nutts like its parent agen
Where shepherds no doubt have oft sought them ere now
To please other susans since then

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Of dandelions

Tis May & yet the March flower Dandelion 

Is still in bloom among the Emerald grass 

Shining like guineas with the suns warm eye on 

We almost think they are gold as we pass 

Or fallen stars on a green sea of grass 

The[y] shine in fields on waste grounds near the town 

They closed like painters brush when even was 

At length they turn to nothing else but down 

While the rude winds blow of[f] each shadowy crown

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Three ‘fragments’

Three of the many Clare ‘fragments’ – poems with very few lines or those started and forgotten. 

Sweeter than roses was the face
Sweeter than roses was the face
For whom I pluckd the flower
Sweeter than heaven was the place
In that delightful hour

Beautiful woman visions dwell
Beautiful woman visions dwell
Of heavens joy about thee
& every step I take is hell
That walks thro' life without thee

Loves memories haunt my footsteps still
Loves memories haunt my footsteps still
Like ceaseless flowings of the river
Its mystic depths say what can fill
Sad disappointment waits for ever

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Clare the Naturalist

May 25 1825
I watched a bluecap or blue titmouse feeding her young, whose nest was in a wall close to an orchard. She got caterpillars out of the blossoms of the apple trees and leaves of the plum. She fetched 120 caterpillars in half an hour. Now suppose she only feeds them four times a day, a quarter of an hour each time, she fetched no less than 480 caterpillars.

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Weedlings wild

The hawthorns here were hung with may
But still they seem in deader green
The sun e'en seems to lose its way
Nor knows the quarter it is in
I dwell on trifles like a child
I feel as ill becomes a man
& still my thoughts like weedlings wild
Grow up to blossom where they can

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Sweet freedom

The crows upon the swelling hills 
The cows upon the lea 
Sheep feeding by the pasture rills 
Are ever dear to me 
Because sweet freedom is their mate 
While I am lone & desolate 
I loved the winds when I was young 
When life was dear to me 
I loved the song which nature sung 
Endearing Liberty 
I loved the wood the dale the stream 
For then my boyhood used to dream 
Then toil itself was even play

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Woodland Spirit

While I brush the branches by

& this woods still ways forsake

Woodland spirit meet my eye

Genius of the woods awake

Breath[e] thy wildness in my ear

[To thy trees] I do belong

Genius of the woods appear

Sound thy roughness in my song

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The pansy

It does me good thou flower of spring

Thy blossoms to behold
Thou bloom'st 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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Footpath winding

It runs & so it will run on
Through summers lasting day
The footpath winding all the way
We trace it near a mile
Through closes green & fallows grey
Oer many a gate & stile
Grass on each side & wild field flowers
& children running on
Crop many a one & think them fair
Till half the day is gone

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Huge elm

Huge elm with rifted trunk all notched & scarred

Like to a warriors destiny

I love To stretch me often on thy shadowed sward

& hear the laugh of summer leaves above

Or on thy buttressed roots to sit & lean

In careless attitude & there reflect

On times & deeds & darings that have been 

Old castaways now swallowed in neglect

While thou art towering in thy strength of heart

Stirring the soul to vain imaginings

In which lifes sordid being hath no part

The wind of that eternal ditty sings

Humming of future things that burn the mind

To leave some fragment of itself behind

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The prospect round

O who can tell the sweets of May-days morn
To waken rapture in a feeling mind
When the gilt East unveils her dappled dawn
& the gay wood-lark has its nest resigned
As slow the sun creeps up the hill behind
Moon reddening round & daylights spotless hue
As seemingly with rose & lily lined
While all the prospect round beams fair to view
Like a sweet Spring flower with its unsullied dew

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Green drapery & crispy curls

I loved & wooed them in the field like gems

Of two much value for the clown who sung

The azure bluebells in their sapphire stems

Among green bushes low their mute bells hung

These seemed loves modest maidens dew bestrung

With blebs o' mornings glittering pearls

I loved them in the vallys where I sung

With their green drapery & crispy curls

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