Of weeds... and men

 

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#JohnClare and weeds.

The finest flower beneath the sky

& like to thee, lives many a swain

With Genius blest—but like to thee

So humble, lowly, mean & plain

No one will notice them nor—me

So like to thee, they live unknown

Wild weeds obscure—& like to thee

Their sweets are sweet to them alone

In the garden

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#JohnClare planning a garden.  Photo?  My garden.

& now a garden pland with nicest care

Should be my next attention to prepare

For this Id search the soil of different grounds

Nor small nor great should mark its homley bounds

Between these two extreems the plan should be

Compleat throughout & large enough for me

In the barley

 

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#JohnClare in the barley.

Down narrow baulks that interscet the fields

Hid in profusions that its produce yields

& flighty oatlands of a lighter hue

& speary barley bowing down with dew

& browning wheat ear on its taper stalk

With gentle breezes bending oer the baulk

Among the flowers

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#JohnClare still among the flowers.  The photo?  My wildflower meadow.

But now a spot should be reservd for flowers

That would amuse me in those vacant hours

When books and study cease their charms to bring

& Fancy sits to prune her shatterd wing

Wild flower walking

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#JohnClare wild flower walking.

The crooked stile with little steps that aid

The climbing meets us & the pleasant grass

& hedgerows old with arbours ready made

For weariness to rest in pleasant shade

Surround us & with ecstasy we pass

Wild flower & insect tribes that ever mate

With joy & dance from every step we take

In numberless confusion all employ

Their little aims for peace & pleasures sake

& every summers footpath leads to joy

The beauty of trees

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#JohnClare - and the beauty of trees.

The woods how lovely with their crowds of trees

Each towering over each like hills oer hills

The oaks excess for darkest covert made

The mind with a sublime of pleasure fills

Then winged ash more sparingly displayed

A lightness oer the pensive eye distills

Fields, and poppies

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#JohnClare - fields, and poppies.

The wild weeds choke the straggling ears,

And motley gardens spread;

The blue-cap there in bloom appears,

And poppies, lively red.

But now my footsteps sidle round

The gently sloping hill,

Now falter over marshy ground,

Yet Nature charms me still

Genius of the woods appear...

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#JohnClare - back in the woods.

While I brush the branches by

& this woods still ways forsake

Woodland spirit meet my eye

Genius of the woods awake

Breath[e] thy wildness in my ear

[To thy trees] I do belong

Genius of the woods appear

Sound thy roughness in my song

Looking up

 

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#JohnClare - looking up.

SUNDAY

The sabbath day of every day the best

The poor mans happiness a poor man sings

When labour has no claim to break his rest

& the light hours flye swift on easy wings

What happiness this holy morning brings

How sweet its opening on his view does steal

How sweet the village bells first warning rings

& o how comfortable does he feel

How sweet to wander now

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#JohnClare - wandering in June.

The season now is all delight,

Sweet smile the passing hours,
And Summer's pleasures, at their height,
Are sweet as are her flowers;
The purple morning waken'd soon,
The midday's gleaming din,
Grey evening with her silver moon,
Are sweet to mingle in.
While waking doves betake to flight
From off each roosting bough,
While Nature's locks are wet with night,
How sweet to wander now!

Of the dandelion

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#JohnClare - of the dandelion.

Tis May and yet the March flower Dandelion 

Is still in bloom among the Emerald grass 

Shining like guineas with the suns warm eye on 

We almost think they are gold as we pass 

Or fallen stars on a green sea of grass 

The[y] shine in fields on waste grounds near the town 

They closed like painters brush when even was 

At length they turn to nothing else but down 

While the rude winds blow of[f] each

Accursed Wealth

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#JohnClare - true in 1820, still true today.

 Accursed wealth oer bounding human laws 
 Of every evil thou remains the cause 
 Victims of want those wretches such as me 
 Too truly lay their wretchedness to thee 
 Thou art the bar that keeps from being fed 
 & thine our loss of labour & of bread 
 Thou art the cause that levels every tree 
 & woods bow down to clear a way for thee

Back in the woods…

 

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#JohnClare back in the woods.

Spirit of the woods awake

In thy wildest dress appear

Trace with me the curdled brake

Sound thy wildness in my ear

Genius of the woods that dwells

Sweeping boughs & grains among

As I climb thy rough rude dells

Breath thy roughness in my song

Looking up… at the kites.

 

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#JohnClare looking up at the kites.

The chick & duck & gosling gone astray

All falling prizes to the swooping kite

& so the story runs its round both morning noon & night

Nor sabbath days no better thoughts instill

Image from dear friend #CarryAkroyd 

On the banks of the Welland.

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#JohnClare on the banks of the Welland.

Flow on winding river in silence for ever

The sedge & flags rustle about in a bustle

You are dear to my fancy thou smooth flowing river

The bullrush bows calm & theres peace in the hustle

          As the boat gently glides

          Oer thy soft flowing tides

As the young maidens sail on a sweet summer day

A sea of buttercups

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#JohnClare and a sea of buttercups.

How sweet when weary dropping on a bank

Turning a look around on things that be

Een feather headed grasses spindling rank

A trembling to the breeze one loves to see

& yellow buttercups where many a bee

Comes buzzing to its head & bows it down

& the great dragon flye wi gauzy wings

In gilded coat of purple green or brown

That on broad leaves of hazel basking clings

In praise of the humble daisy

 

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#JohnClare in praise of the humble daisy.

While on the sunny bank the daisys seem

With smiling charms to court the clowns esteem

Nor do they spread their smiling charms in vain

His bosom warms enrapturd at the sight

With secret pleasure & unknown delight

His swelling soul to memorys treasure flies

& strives to speak—but Ignorance denies

Clare defining his Eden

 

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#JohnClare defining his Eden.

O native endearments I woud not forsake ye

I woud not forsake ye for sweetest of scenes

For sweetest of gardens that nature coud make me

I woud not forsake ye dear vallies & greens

Tho nature neer dropt thee a cloud resting mountain

Nor water falls tumble their music to thee

Had nature denyd thee a bush tree or fountain

Thou still woud bin lovd as an eden by me

Tree roots

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#JohnClare finding beauty in old tree roots.

The woods again how sweet,

To find the peace which freedom finds,

And from the world retreat;

To stretch beneath a spreading tree,

That far its shadow shoots,

While by its side the water free

Curls through its twisted roots.

#JohnClare by a Brook.

Fair grows the tree by the side of the fountain

Green green grows the grass in the falls of the plain

Sweet smells the thyme on the caps of the mountains

& sweet from the woods thrills the Mavis his strains

The fair dripping branches & grasses green blooming

Adorn the cool fountain & carpet the plain

& molehills of thyme the wild mountains perfuming

Still do they bloom but to please me in vain

Mavis = Thrush