Foot pad turning

The arching groves & walks so dark 
All appear in mem'rys eye 
With deep regret I view'd the spire 
Which told the busy vil so nigh 
For lonley shades are my desire 
Far from the reach of human eye 
The foot pad turning to the town 
No longer provd alone to me 
Loud noisy murmurs filld the air 
& spoild my deep sollemnity 
The passing hours jog'd on apace 
& in their progress seem'd to say 
‘Haste and gain that destind place’

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Sauntering

I cant contain myself in summers prime 

Tuneless I hum my wonder songs into rhyme 

Mere scraps of what I think or feel or see 

While sauntering narrow lanes – they are to me 

A heritage of happiness & yields 

Peace & calm joy from the refreshing fields

(A Clare ‘unpublished fragment’)

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Silent balm

While sauntering noiseless oer the leafy ground
The air we breathe seems void of every trace
Of earth & all its trouble & the mind
Yearns for a dwelling in so sweet a place
From troubles noise such stillness seemeth by

Yet still the little path winds on & on
Down hedgerow sides & many a pastoral charm
We soon forget the charm of poesy gone
In the still woodland with its silent balm

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Delightfully pleasant

With the settled weather we are promised for the coming week, a poem from Clare which beautifully summarises what many will feel this September.

How delightfuly pleasant when the cool chilling air
By September is thrown o’er the globe
When each morning both hedges and bushes do wear
Instead of their green—a grey robe.
To see the sun rise thro the skirts of the wood
In his mantle so lovely and red
It cheers up my spirits and does me much good
As thro the cold stubbles I tread.

Tho’ not that his beams more advances the scene
Or adds to the Landscape a charm
But all that delights me by him may be seen
That the ensuing hours will be warm.
And this with the poet as yet in the world
In a parallel sense will comply
For when he does view the gay scenes there unfurl'd
‘Tis only to light him on high.

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Betokening rain

Black grows the southern sky betokening rain
& humming hive-bees homeward hurry bye
They feel the change so let us shun the grain
& take the broad road while our feet are dry
Ay there some dropples moistened on my face
& pattered on my hat tis coming nigh
Lets look about & find a sheltering place
The little things around like you & I
Are hurrying through the grass to shun the shower
Here stoops an ash-tree hark the wind gets high
But never mind this ivy for an hour
Rain as it may will keep us dryly here
That little wren knows well his sheltering bower
Nor leaves his dry house though we come so near

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Like to shadows

Partly from the Scripture

Written in Sickness

Our years look behind us like tales that are told
Our days like to shadows keep passing us bye
That takes a short step to our pillow of mould
& rise on lifes stage like to vapours & dye 

.
As frail as the grass of the meadow is man
His youth like the blossom of summer comes on
That smiles to the sunbeam till autumn turns wan
& the wind passes oer it & bids it be gone 

.
Thus one generation keeps passing away
& new generations their places retain
& the friends of our bosom that leave us to day
Shall neer fill the circle of friendship again

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Harvest home

As rests warm rapture rousd the rustics lay
The thread bare ballad from each quavering tongue
As ‘peggy bond’ or the ‘sweet month of may’
As how he joyd to hear each ‘good old song’
That on nights pausing ear did echo loud & strong
The muse might sing too for he well did know
The freaks & plays that harvest home doth end
How the last load is crownd wi boughs & how
Wi floating ribbons diznd at their end
The swains & maids wi fork & rake attend
& how the children on the load delight
Wi shouts of harvest home their throats to rend
& how the dames peep out to mark the sight
& all the feats that crown the harvest supper night

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