Life and Remains of John Clare Part 21

I have a pleasant hill Which I sit upon for hours, Where she crop't some sprigs of thyme And other little flowers; And she muttered as she did it As does beauty in a dream, And I loved her when she hid it On her breast, so like to cream, Near the brown mole on her neck that to me a diamond shone; Then my eye was like to fire, and my heart was like to stone.

There is a small green place Where cowslips early curled, Which on Sabbath day I traced, The dearest in the world.

A little oak spreads o'er it, And throws a shadow round, A green sward close before it, The greenest ever found: There is not a woodland nigh nor is there a green grove, Yet stood the fair maid nigh me and told me all her love.

MILKING O' THE KYE

Young Jenny wakens at the dawn, Fresh as carnations newly blown, And o'er the pasture every morn Goes milking o' the kye.

She sings her songs of happy glee, While round her swirls the humble bee; The b.u.t.terfly, from tree to tree, Goes gaily flirting by.

Young Jenny was a bonny thing As ever wakened in the Spring, And blythe she to herself could sing At milking o' the kye.

She loved to hear the old crows croak Upon the ash tree and the oak, And noisy pies that almost spoke At milking o' the kye.

She crop't the wild thyme every night, Scenting so sweet the dewy light, And hid it in her breast so white At milking o' the kye.

I met and clasped her in my arms, The finest flower on twenty farms; Her snow-white breast my fancy warms At milking o' the kye.

A LOVER'S VOWS

Scenes of love and days of pleasure, I must leave them all, la.s.sie.

Scenes of love and hours of leisure, All are gone for aye, la.s.sie.

No more thy velvet-bordered dress My fond and longing een shall bless, Thou lily in the wilderness; And who shall love thee then, la.s.sie?

Long I've watched thy look so tender, Often clasped thy waist so slender: Heaven, in thine own love defend her, G.o.d protect my own la.s.sie.

By all the faith I've shown afore thee, I'll swear by more than that, la.s.sie: By heaven and earth I'll still adore thee, Though we should part for aye, la.s.sie!

By thy infant years so loving, By thy woman's love so moving, That white breast thy goodness proving, I'm thine for aye, through all, la.s.sie!

By the sun that shines for ever, By love's light and its own Giver, Who loveth truth and leaveth never, I'm thine for aye, through all, la.s.sie!

THE FALL OF THE YEAR

The Autumn's come again, And the clouds descend in rain, And the leaves are fast falling in the wood; The Summer's voice is still, Save the clacking of the mill And the lowly-muttered thunder of the flood.

There's nothing in the mead But the river's muddy speed, And the willow leaves all littered by its side.

Sweet voices are all still In the vale and on the hill, And the Summer's blooms are withered in their pride.

Fled is the cuckoo's note To countries far remote, And the nightingale is vanished from the woods; If you search the lordship round There is not a blossom found, And where the hay-c.o.c.k scented is the flood.

My true love's fled away Since we walked 'mid c.o.c.ks of hay, On the Sabbath in the Summer of the year; And she's nowhere to be seen On the meadow or the green, But she's coming when the happy Spring is near.

When the birds begin to sing, And the flowers begin to spring, And the cowslips in the meadows reappear, When the woodland oaks are seen In their monarchy of green, Then Mary and love's pleasures will be here.

AUTUMN

I love the fitful gust that shakes The cas.e.m.e.nt all the day, And from the glossy elm tree takes The faded leaves away, Twirling them by the window pane With thousand others down the lane.

I love to see the shaking twig Dance till the shut of eve, The sparrow on the cottage rig, Whose chirp would make believe That Spring was just now flirting by, In Summer's lap with flowers to lie.

I love to see the cottage smoke Curl upwards through the trees, The pigeons nestled round the cote On November days like these; The c.o.c.k upon the dunghill crowing, The mill sails on the heath a-going.

The feather from the raven's breast Falls on the stubble lea, The acorns near the old crow's nest Drop pattering down the tree; The grunting pigs, that wait for all, Scramble and hurry where they fall.

EARLY LOVE

The Spring of life is o'er with me, And love and all gone by; Like broken bough upon yon tree, I'm left to fade and die.

Stern ruin seized my home and me, And desolate's my cot: Ruins of halls, the blasted tree, Are emblems of my lot.

I lived and loved, I woo'd and won, Her love was all to me, But blight fell o'er that youthful one, And like a blasted tree I withered, till I all forgot But Mary's smile on me; She never lived where love was not, And I from bonds was free.

The Spring it clothed the fields with pride, When first we met together; And then unknown to all beside We loved in sunny weather; We met where oaks grew overhead, And whitethorns hung with may; Wild thyme beneath her feet was spread, And cows in quiet lay.

I thought her face was sweeter far Than aught I'd seen before-- As simple as the cowslips are Upon the rushy moor: She seemed the muse of that sweet spot, The lady of the plain, And all was dull where she was not, Till we met there again.

EVENING

'T is evening: the black snail has got on his track, And gone to its nest is the wren, And the packman snail, too, with his home on his back, Clings to the bowed bents like a wen.

The shepherd has made a rude mark with his foot Where his shadow reached when he first came, And it just touched the tree where his secret love cut Two letters that stand for love's name.

The evening comes in with the wishes of love, And the shepherd he looks on the flowers, And thinks who would praise the soft song of the dove, And meet joy in these dew-falling hours.

For Nature is love, and finds haunts for true love, Where nothing can hear or intrude; It hides from the eagle and joins with the dove, In beautiful green solitude.

A VALENTINE

Here's a valentine nosegay for Mary, Some of Spring's earliest flowers; The ivy is green by the dairy, And so are these laurels of ours.

Though the snow fell so deep and the winter was dreary, The laurels are green and the sparrows are cheery.

The snowdrops in bunches grow under the rose, And aconites under the lilac, like fairies; The best in the bunches for Mary I chose, Their looks are as sweet and as simple as Mary's.

The one will make Spring in my verses so bare, The other set off as a braid thy dark hair.