Pleasant sounds


The rustling of leaves under the feet in woods & under hedges    The crumping of cat-ice & snow down wood rides   narrow lanes & every street causeways     Rustling through a wood    or rather rushing while the wind hallows in the oak tops like thunder     The rustles of birds wings startled from their nests or flying unseen into the bushes      The whizzing of larger birds over head in a wood such as crows puddocks buzzards &c     The trample of roburst wood larks on the brown leaves & the patter of Squirrels on the green moss   The fall of an acorn on the ground   the pattering of nuts on the hazel branches ere they fall from ripeness     The flirt of the ground-larks wing from the stubbles    how sweet such pictures on dewy mornings when the dew flashes from its brown feathers

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Startled frogs


From the hay-cocks moistend heaps
Startled frogs take vaunting leaps
& along the shaven mead
Jumping travellers they proceed 
Quick the dewy grass divides
Moistening sweet their speckled sides 
From the grass or flowrets cup
Quick the dew-drop bounces up
Now the blue fog creeps along
& the birds forgot his song
Flowers now sleep within their hoods
Daisies button into buds
From soiling dew the butter-cup 
Shuts his golden jewels up

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Life?


And what is Life? -- An hour-glass on the run,

A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still repeated dream;
Its length? -- A minute's pause, a moment's thought;
And happiness? -- A bubble on the stream,
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought.

What are vain Hopes? -- The puffing gale of morn,
That of its charms divests the dewy lawn,
And robs each floweret of its gem -- and dies;
A cobweb hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise

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Old merry songs


The Moth a coy lover now ventures to creep
Out at night to steal kisses from flowers when asleep
But the Butterflye bold as the Bee for a plot
Kisses the flowers all the day whether willing or not
Now no longer able his sports to pursue
He lay neath a leaf to get out of the dew
Heres the Cockchaffer to with his old sullen drone
Sings as if he thought no song sweet as his own
The Bee too with grains of red dust on each thigh
Who had drained thro the day all the honey flowers dry
& in vain he attempted straight forward to drive
He reeled and mistook the way home to his hive
Till lost on this spot in a considerable fright
He makes on this thistle a bed for the night
Heres the rope dancing spider a trusting his threads
From his web on the branches high over their heads
Ah well may you laugh at the sports he doth make
While he dances away in no fears for his neck
The rest were all coupled & happy & they
Song the old merry songs which they sang at his day

(Unpublished as far as I can tell)

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I am free

 


Russet stain


To mark what looks like early autumn here in East Devon, a poem from Clare's wonderful collection "Poems descriptive of rural life and scenery" (1820)

A REFLECTION IN AUTUMN
Now Autumn's come—adieu the pleasing greens
The charming Lanscape & the flowrey plain
All are deserted from these motley scenes
With blighted yellow ting'd & russet stain
Tho desolation seems to triumph here
Yet these are spring to what we still shall find
The trees must all in nakedness appear
'Reft of their foliage by the blustry wind
Just so 'twill fare with me in Autumns life
Just so I'd wish—but may the trunk & all
Die with the leaves—nor taste that wintry strife
Where Sorrows urge—& fear Impedes the fall!

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Melancholy Autumn


Now melancholy autumn comes anew
With showery clouds and fields of wheat tanned brown
Along the meadow banks I peace pursue
And see the wild flowers gleaming up and down
Like sun and light; the ragwort's golden crown
Mirrors like sunshine when sunbeams retire
And silver yarrow: there's the little town
And o'er the meadows gleams that slender spire
Reminding me of one, and waking fond desire

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Image by my friend Carry Akroyd