by: John Clare (1793-1864)
POEMS BY JOHN CLARE
- HE thistledown's
flying, though the winds are all still,
- On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
- The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
- Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.
- The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
- The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
- The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
- And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.
- Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
- And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
- Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
- Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.