Green fields no more the summer views
The dewdrop lives for half a day
Green fields no more the summer views
The Workhouse Orphan
Our land
Ive loved thy being from a boy
A quiet comes across the mind
A quiet comes across the mind
Swifter than thought
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The deliciousness of solitude
Now almost hid in trees a little gate
Clare’s first meeting with Patty
Ye Swampy Falls of pasture ground
Like serpents gliding by
This twilight seems a veil of gauze and mist
The sun hung on nothing
To wander the fields & the meadows about
& the first thing we markt that was lovly to view
Was the sun hung on nothing & bidding adieu
He seemd like a ball of pure gold in the west
In a cloud like a mountain blue dropping to rest
Clare and quiet kine
Ive often gazed with pleasure by the edge
Of the old meadow lake floodwashed and crookd
The water-rat slow rustling in the sedge
The fish-ring wavering in the clear Ive looked
In rapture on the mellow summer shine
Of the still water gleaming in the sun
Just wrinkled by the plash of quiet kine
Who knee-deep in the flags would drink—and done
Clare and the poisonous ragwort, home to the cinnabar moth caterpillar.
Upon the blooming ragworts golden breast
Giving unto the mind a sweet employ
That everything in nature meets with joy
Ah sweet indeed for trifles such as these
Full often give my aching bosom ease
Morning…
Hedge-sparrows in the bush cry ‘tweet’
O'er nests larks winnow in the wheat
Till the sun turns gold and gets more high
& paths are clean & grass gets dry
& longest shadows pass away
& brightness is the blaze of day
A political comment from #JohnClare. Prescient!
Here shines our orator in all his plumes
Nor prouder bantam to a dung hill comes
Then he to crow & peck & peck & crow
& hurl bad english at retorting foe
No hungry magpie round a rotten sheep
A longer song of nonsense up can keep
Whistle & Winnow
There is music without ere a bird
Do wild flowers love?
Of gipsey liberty
A hazy misty day
How Slow the hazy mist retires
The corncraik
The corncraik rispt her summer call
Just as the sun went down
Copper red a burning ball
In woods behind the town
I wandered forth a maid to meet
So bonny and so fair
No other flower was half so sweet
& cole black was her hair
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Photo from my friend #RebeccaHawley
The spring has brought its blessing love
The Morning Wind
Clare built his Paradise, his Eden, with materials personal to
him. His Paradise consists of the few square miles around
Helpston, and he maintained a map of this Paradise in his head.
He knew every tree, every bush, every field in Eden, and every
living thing in it. In my opinion, a very important poem straight
from the heart of the poet.
He writes in his sonnet ‘The Morning Wind’:
Theres more then music in this early wind
Awaking like a bird refreshed from sleep
& joy what Adam might in Eden find
When he with angels did communion keep
It breaths all balm & insence from the sky
Blessing the husbandman with freshening powers
Joys manna from its wings doth fall & lie
Harvests for early wakers with the
The very grass with joys devotion moves
Cowslaps in adoration & delight
This way & that bow to the breath they love
Of the young winds that with their dew pearls play
Till smoaking chimneys sicken the young light
& feelings fairey visions fade away
From my Chapbook ‘Eden Defiled’.
Walks in the Woods (part)
Through woods where lone the woodman goes
Through all the matted shades to stray
The brambles tearing at my clothes
& it may tear I love the noise
& hug the solitary joys
The woodman he from top to toe
In leathern doublet brushes on
He cares not where his rambles go
Thorns briers he beats them every one
Their utmost spite his armour foils
Unhurt he dares his daily toils
Knee deep in fern he daily stoops
& loud his bill or hatchet chops
As snug he trims the faggot up
Or gaps in mossy hedges stops
While echo chops as he hath done
As if she counted every one
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I feel that rapture which the world hath not
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The gabble of geese & the bawling of boys
(A fragment)
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Building castles in the air.
#JohnClare building castles in the air.
A free offer…
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Wild flower & insect tribes
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If you’d like a free PDF of one of my #JohnClare books, just let me know on arborfield (at) pm (dot) me (Perfect for any Reader).
Where to cross?
What is life?
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A mist retreating from the morning sun
A busy bustling still repeated dream
— Its Length? — A minutes pause — a moments thought
& happiness? — A Bubble on the stream
That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought
Dragonfly
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Where water lileys mount their snowy buds
On whose broad swimming leaves of glossy green
The shining dragon flye is often seen
& hanging thorns whose roots washd bare appear
That shields the morehens nest from year to year