John Clare

Christmas is come and every
Makes room to give him welcome nowE'en want will dry its tears in
And crown him wi' a holly
Tho tramping 'neath a winters skyO'er snow track paths and rhymey

Farewell to the bushy clump close to the
And the flags where the butter-bump hides in forever;
Farewell to the weedy nook, hemmed in by waters;
Farewell to the miller's brook and his three bonny daughters;

When first we hear the shy-come nightingales,
They seem to mutter o’er their songs in fear,
And, climb we e’er so soft the spinney rails,
All stops as if no bird was anywhere

In the cowslip pips I lie,
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies,
Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes,

I am
yet what I am none cares or knows, My friends forsake me like a memory lost; I am the self-consumer of my woes, They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost; And yet I am
and live with shadow...

I ne'er was struck before that hour With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower And stole my heart away complete
My face turned pale as deadly pale
My legs refused to walk away,

When once the sun sinks in the west,
And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast;
Almost as pale as moonbeams are,
Or its companionable star,