John Clare

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,

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 ...

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

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;

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...

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;

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;

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

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,

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;

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

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,