John Clare

,Just by the wooden brig a bird flew up Frit by the cowboy as he scrambled down To reach the misty dewberry—let us stoop ,And seek its nest—the brook we need not dread

When midnight comes a host of dogs and men ,Go out and track the badger to his den And put a sack within the hole, and lie .Till the old grunting badger passes bye

;The spring is coming by a many signs ,The trays are up, the hedges broken down That fenced the haystack, and the remnant shines .Like some old antique fragment weathered brown

The morning road is thronged with merry boys ;Who seek the water for their Sunday joys

;Thou Winter, thou art keen, intensely keen ,Thy cutting frowns experience bids me know ,For in thy weather days and days I’ve been ,As grinning north-winds horribly did blow

,I loved thee, though I told thee not ,Right earlily and long ,Thou wert my joy in every spot .My theme in every song

,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 

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