One white garb

One almost sees the hermit from the wood 
Come bending with his sticks beneath his arm
& then the smoke curl up its dusky flood 
From the white little roof his peace to warm
One shapes his books his quiet & his joys
& in romances world-forgetting mood 
The scene so strange so fancys mind employs 
It seems heart aching for his solitude

Domestic spots near home & trod so oft
Seen daily known for years—by the strange wand 
Of winters humour changed the little croft 
Left green at night when morns loath looks obtrude
Trees bushes grass to one wild garb subdued
Have gone & left us in another land

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Solitudes

I love to hide me on a spot that lies 

In solitudes where footsteps find no track
To make intrusions there to sympathize With nature often gazing on the rack That veils the blueness of the summer skies In rich varieties or oer the grass Behold the spangled crowds of butterflies Flutter from flower to flower & things that pass

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Spring Messengers

Here we have Clare speaking of the first signs of Spring, the primrose that I can see from my study across the garden, with its Devon banks and warm corners:

Where slanting banks are always with the sun 
The daisy is in blossom even now
& where warm patches by the hedges run 
The cottager when coming home from plough 
Brings home a cowslip root in flower to set
Thus ere the Christmas goes the spring is met 
Setting up little tents about the fields 
In sheltered spots — Primroses when they get 
Behind the woods old roots where ivy shields 
Their crimpled curdled leaves will shine and hide
Cart ruts and horses footings scarcely yield 
A slur for boys just crizzled & that's all
Frost shoots his needles by the small dyke side
& snow in scarce a feathers seen to fall

After seeking out this lovely poem, I remembered Ronald Blythe's words from his weekly country diary "Word from Wormingford" many years ago:

"Gulls, scores of them, take greedy flight over a bit of ploughing. Clumps of snowdrops reveal their presence in my woodland, white-tipped needles in the leaf mulch. And then that midwinter yet, at the same time, near-spring rustle of blackbirds kicking around in dry leaves, and the jewel-like glimpse of their shining eyes beneath the shrubs"

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Heavy rain

The shepherd leaves his unprotected flock 
 
& flies for shelter in some scooping rock 
 
There hides in fear from the dread boding wrath 
 
Lest rocks shoud tremble when it sallies forth 
 
& that almighty power that bids it roar 
 
Has seald the doom when time shall be no more 
 
The cotters family cringe round the harth 
 
Where all is saddnd but the crickets mirth 


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Approach of Spring

Ive met the Winters biting breath
In Natures wild retreat
When Silence listens as in death
& thought its wildness sweet
& I have loved the Winters calm
When frost has left the plain
When suns that morning wakend warm
Left eve to freeze again

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Toiling

 

I feel it necessary to temper the romantic notions we have of life in the outdoors in the early 19th century as an agricultural labourer:

Toiling in the naked fields
Where no bush a shelter yield
Needy Labour dithering stands
Beats & blows his numbing hands
& upon the crumping snows
Stamps in vain to warm his toes
Leaves are fled that once had power
To resist a summer shower
& the wind so piercing blows
Winnowing small the drifting snows

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Poesys measured feet

Like boys that run behind the loaded wain
For the mere joy of riding back again
When summer from the meadow carts the hay
& school hours leave them half a day to play
So I with leisure on three sides a sheet
Of foolscap dance with poesys measured feet
Just to ride post upon the wings of time
& kill a care to friendship turned in rhyme

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