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Remembrances

Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every

And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh onI tried to call them back but unbidden they are

Far away from heart and eye and for ever far

Dear heart and can it be that such raptures meet decayI thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I layI thought them joys eternal when I used to shout and

On its bank at 'clink and bandy' 'chock' and 'taw' and    ducking

Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her

Like a ruin of the past all

When I used to lie and sing by old eastwells boiling

When I used to tie the willow boughs together for a 'swing'And fish with crooked pins and thread and never catch a

With heart just like a feather- now as heavy as a

When beneath old lea close oak I the bottom branches

To make our harvest cart like so many working

And then to cut a straw at the brook to have a soakO I never dreamed of parting or that trouble had a

Or that pleasures like a flock of birds would ever take to

Leaving nothing but a little naked

When jumping time away on old cross berry

And eating awes like sugar plumbs ere they had lost the

And skipping like a leveret before the peep of

On the rolly polly up and downs of pleasant swordy

When in round oaks narrow lane as the south got black

We sought the hollow ash that was shelter from the

With our pockets full of peas we had stolen from the

How delicious was the dinner time on such a showry dayO words are poor receipts for what time hath stole

The ancient pulpit trees and the

When for school oer 'little field' with its brook and wooden

Where I swaggered like a man though I was not half so

While I held my little plough though twas but a willow

And drove my team along made of nothing but a name'Gee hep' and 'hoit' and 'woi'- O I never call to

These pleasant names of places but I leave a sigh

While I see the little mouldywharps hang sweeing to the

On the only aged willow that in all the field

And nature hides her face where theyre sweeing in their

And in a silent murmuring

Here was commons for the hills where they seek for    freedom

Though every commons gone and though traps are set to

The little homeless miners- O it turns my bosom

When I think of old 'sneap green' puddocks nook and hilly

Where bramble bushes grew and the daisy gemmed in

And the hills of silken grass like to cushions to the

When we threw the pissmire crumbs when we's nothing    else to

All leveled like a desert by the never weary

All vanished like the sun where that cloud is passing

All settled here for ever on its browI never thought that joys would run away from

Or that boys would change their minds and forsake such    summer

But alack I never dreamed that the world had other

To petrify first feelings like the fable into

Till I found the pleasure past and a winter come at

Then the fields were sudden bare and the sky got

And boyhoods pleasing haunts like a blossom in the

Was shrivelled to a withered weed and trampled down and

Till vanished was the morning spring and set that summer

And winter fought her battle strife and

By Langley bush I roam but the bush hath left its

On cowper green I stray tis a desert strange and

And spreading lea close oak ere decay had penned its

To the axe of the spoiler and self interest fell a

And cross berry way and old round oaks narrow

With its hollow trees like pulpits I shall never see

Inclosure like a Buonaparte let not a thing

It levelled every bush and tree and levelled every

And hung the moles for traitors - though the brook is    running

It runs a naked brook cold and chillO had I known as then joy had left the paths of menI had watched her night and day besure and never slept

And when she turned to go O I'd caught her mantle

And wooed her like a lover by my lonely side to

Aye knelt and worshipped on as love in beautys

And clung upon her smiles as a bee upon her

And gave her heart my poesys all cropt in a sunny

As keepsakes and pledges to fade

But love never heeded to treasure up the

So it went the comon road with decay.

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John Clare

John Clare (13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864) was an English poet. The son of a farm labourer, he became known for his celebrations of the English cou…
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