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