John Clare

Now musing o'er the changing scene
Farmers behind the tavern screen
Collect; with elbows idly press'd
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Now musing o'er the changing scene
Farmers behind the tavern screen
Collect; with elbows idly press'd
On hob, reclines the corner's guest,
Reading the news to mark again
The bankrupt lists or price of grain.
Puffing the while his red-tipt pipe
He dreams o'er troubles nearly ripe,
Yet, winter's leisure to regale,
Hopes better times, and sips his ale.

If life had a second edition, how I would correct the proofs.

If life had a second edition, how I would correct the proofs.

Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn
Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May
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Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn
Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May
New blooming blossoms 'neath the sun are born,
And all poor April's charms are swept away.

Loud is the summer's busy song
The smallest breeze can find a tongue,
While insects of each read more

Loud is the summer's busy song
The smallest breeze can find a tongue,
While insects of each tiny size
Grow teasing with their melodies,
Till noon burns with its blistering breath
Around, and day lies still as death.

Old noted oak! I saw thee in a mood
Of vague indifference; and yet with me
Thy read more

Old noted oak! I saw thee in a mood
Of vague indifference; and yet with me
Thy memory, like thy fate, hath lingering stood
For years, thou hermit, in the lonely sea
Of grass that waves around thee!