from September
Old goody seeks her milking cloak
And hastens out to milk the cow
And fill the troughs to feed the sow
Or seeking old hens laid astray
Or from young chickens drives away
The circling kite that round them flyes
Waiting the chance to seize the prize
Hogs trye thro gates the street to gain
And steal into the fields of grain
From nights dull prison comes the duck
Waddling eager thro the muck
Squeezing thro the orchard pales
Where mornings bounty rarely fails
Eager gobbling as they pass
Dew worms thro the padded grass
A ruin of the past
Summers pleasures they are gone like to visions every one
& the cloudy days of autumn & of winter cometh on
I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone
Far away from heart & eye & forever far away
Dear heart & can it be that such raptures meet decay
I thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I lay
I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout & play
On its bank at “clink & bandy” “chock” & “taw” & “ducking stone”
Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her own
Like a ruin of the past all alone
Misthress Leythess
bot wat a strange thing thet the man wid the fire showel shud cum oif the ero Mathem but lard bles yu he wor prothekted by providence & as thof he was nat doin the rite thing
Quiet moods
I love to walk the fields they are to me
A legacy no evil can destroy
They like a spell set every rapture free
That cheered me when a boy
Play--pastime--all times blotting pen concealed
Comes like a new-born joy
To greet me in the field
For natures objects ever harmonize
With emulous taste that vulgar deed annoys
It loves in quiet moods to sympathize
& meet vibrating joys
Oer natures pleasant things nor will it deem
Pastime the muse employs
A vain obtrusive theme
The sallows
The sallows glisten in their gay palm bloom
Studded with golden down where earliest come
The solitary wild bees that servive
Their trance & ere the tenants of the hive
Dare venure out are searching field & wood
& from scarce blossoms seeking scanty food
Hanging there yet half doubtful hopes along
& humming wearily a lonly song
Last lingering
& when the summers swarms half namless fled
& autumns landscape faded bleak & wild
When leaves gun fall & show their berries red
Still with the season woud I be beguild
Lone spots to seek home leaving far behind
Were wildness rears her lings & teazle burs
& were last lingering of the flowery kind
Blue heath bells tremble neath the sheltering furze
Sweet was such walks on the half barren wild
Which ploughs leave quiet with their briars & brakes
Prospects of freedom pleasing from a child
To track the crookd pad which the rabbit makes
A ruby crown
And the falling dew from heaven so blue
Hang[s] like pearls on Phoebe's head
Love leave the town
We'll crop the bonny sweet brere
Oh come dear maid neath the hazle wood shade
For love invites us here
Come then wi' me
A venerable tree
Ruins vain shades of power I never see
Once dedicated to times cheating trust
But warm reflection wakes her saddest thought
& views lifes vanity in cheerless light
& sees earths bubbles youth so eager sought
Burst into emptiness of lost delight
& all the pictures of lifes early day
Like evenings striding shadows haste away
Yet theres a glimmering of pleasure springs
From such reflections of earths vanity
That pines & sickens oer lifes mortal things
& leaves a relish for eternity
Of blackberries and stickers
Blackberrying may appear to be a trivial subject in John Clare's poetry, generally referred to in passing as a characteristic autumnal activity, along with collecting elderberries to make wine, or hazel nuts, or mushrooms, or water-cress, or gathering rotten wood for the cottage-fire. Essentially, it is not different from those other rural activities, which formed part of the cottager's economy in every part of Europe.
In the English fens, the inhabitants believed that the produce of the wasteland came to them by right. Also in the fens: "At dusk, the passer-by might be confronted by silently-moving lines of shadowy figures, their backs bent under the weight of trunks and piled-up wood, as they headed for home". Clare referred to this wood as "rotten," omitting the word "wood" occasionally.
Where stickers stroll from day to day
And gather loads of rotten wood
And poachers left in safety stray
When midnight wears its deepest mood.
(from Walks in the Woods)
Clare's natural sympathies are with the "stickers," as he calls them: the "wood-men," on the other hand, the agents of the landowners, are "terrifying rascals" who "make a prison of the forrests and are its joalers." (sic) Just as the fallen wood belonged by right to the local inhabitants in the forests in all parts of Europe, so, according to popular belief, did the fallen wood belong to the locals near the oak woods of Stamford, and, in both regions, led to conflict between landowners and peasants, between the lord's steward and gypsies, or the woodman and villagers.
The conflict over wood extended to other products of the waste -- rabbits, hares, birds, withies, reeds, cresses, sloes, dewberries, nuts, mushrooms, elderberries, wild strawberries and blackberries, not to mention eggs, snakes, deer, eels, fish, and other edibles. The custom of nutting, which Clare celebrates, was particularly disliked by the landowners, their servants and the tenant-farmers. The pages of the Stamford Mercury and Drakard's Stamford News are filled with advertisements and articles regarding the practice; the Mercury, upholding the rights of the landowners, the News those of the rural population.
(Robinson & Rowe)
The night wind
The night wind now with sooty wings
In the cotters chimney sings
Now as stretching oer the bed
Soft I raise my drowsy head
Listening to the ushering charms
That shake the elm tree's mossy arms
Till sweet slumbers stronger creep
Deeper darkness stealing round
Then as rocked I sink to sleep
Mid the wild winds lulling sound
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
Startled frogs
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
Old merry songs
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)
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!