John Clare

He could not die when trees were green, For he loved the time too well
His little hands, when flowers were seen, Were held for the bluebell, As he was carried o'er the green
His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee; He knew those children ...

Among the orchard weeds, from every search,
Snugly and sure, the old hen’s nest is made,
Who cackles every morning from her
To tell the servant girl new eggs are laid;

Timid and smiling, beautiful and shy,
She drops her head at every passer bye
Afraid of praise she hurries down the
And turns away from every smile she meets

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,

The rolls and harrows lie at rest beside The battered road; and spreading far and wide Above the russet clods, the corn is seen Sprouting its spiry points of tender green, Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake, Like some brown clod the harr...

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

On Lolham Brigs in wild and lonely moodI've seen the winter floods their gambols
Through each old arch that trembled while I
Bent o'er its wall to watch the dashing
As their old stations would be washed

While snow the window-panes bedim,
The fire curls up a sunny charm,
Where, creaming o'er the pitcher's rim,
The flowering ale is set to warm;

I hid my love when young till I Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly; I hid my love to my despite Till I could not bear to look at light: I dare not gaze upon her face But left her memory in each place; Where'er I saw a wild flower lie I kissed and ...

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come, For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom, And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest, And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast; She sits beneath the wh...

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

I love to see the old heath's withered
Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling,
While the old heron from the lonely
Starts slow and flaps its melancholy wing,

How sweet to be thus nestling deep in boughs,
Upon an ashen stoven pillowing me;
Faintly are heard the ploughmen at their ploughs,
But not an eye can find its way to see

I am
yet what I am who cares, or knows
My friends forsake me like a memory lost
I am the self-consumer of my woes;   They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,

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...

The firetail tells the boys when nests are
And tweets and flies from every passer-bye
The yellowhammer never makes a
But flies in silence from the noisy boys;