Snow storm

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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Love’s strings

Ive heard thee sing of plaintive things

& as thy fingers swept the strings

Thy eyes have wept most tenderly

Then list awhile till I beguile

Thy heart with sorrows melody

A young heart tried a maid to move
& pined to death for very love
The maiden naught but scorn returned
Nor dropt one tear upon his bier
He died unhonoured & unmourned

I knew thou'dst mourn so sad a thing
Oh touch my Anna touch the string
With sprightlier airs nor grief endure
That heart you weep though wounded deep
Is yet not past your cure

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Clare’s Novel

Very few folk know that in the 1820s Clare was engaged in writing scenes for a novel.  After finding traces of these writings in the Archives, I quickly realised that here was a considerable amount of prose that no-one seemed to have explored, and published.  All completely ignored although there are many important passages.  Here is a taste of the series of letters in the novel between Mrs Hubbelgubbel and Mrs Leytiss, influenced by the hilarious correspondence in Smollett's ‘Humphrey Clinker’ from the late 18th century.

Miss Eleezer plays bewtifulle on the Pye anna 
forty & sings so chamminly that I feere we shell sewn 
loose thee yung leddy fur she hes so menny 
akompleeshmints & our yung sqire steys so long away 
fram Lunnun that theirs no noin whets to bee    whel 
godd giv hur grace fur shees gat weesdom enaff aireddy 
for a dukes dewchest    athou it iss I her maa maa who 
seys it     be wise der bye beetimes & let mee tell yu 
thet a duke is not a dukk minde    thet wich swimms on 
the warter    but onne off thee quall ety der bye thet iss 
nextt to thee kingg godd bless him 

(From Clare’s aborted novel ‘Memoirs of Uncle Barnaby’ still available from me, £12.50)

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Sweet is the stillness

How calm is the even down in the narrow lane 
 
Where white thorn & woodbine & dog roses meet 
 
How bright is the dew on the dog rose again 
 
While grey mist creeps over like the days winding sheet 
O beautiful the silver mist will hang on flowers 
 
& pearl oer the freckles O the fox glove bell 
 
How sweet is the stillness O eventide hours 
 
When in the green oak leaves ring doves do dwell

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Glitters like gold

Theres a little odd house by the side of the Lane 
Where the daisy smiles sweet in the spring 
Where the morning sun glitters like gold on the pane 
& the hedge Sparrow trembles his wing 
Where chaffinch green linnet & Sparrows have tones 
That make the green Lane & the cottage their own

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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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Image by #JohnNash

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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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