Olton Pools

Now June walks on the waters,
And the cuckoo's last enchantment
Passes from Olton pools.

Now dawn comes to my window
Breathing midsummer roses,
And scythes are wet with dew.

Is it not strange for ever
That, bowered in this wonder,
Man keeps a jealous heart?...

That June and the June waters,
And birds and dawn-lit roses,
Are gospels in the wind,

Fading upon the deserts,
Poor pilgrim revelations?...
Hist ... over Olton pools!

John Drinkwater

John Drinkwater was an influential English poet and dramatist who played a significant role in the early 20th-century literary scene. His best-known works include a series of historical plays about Abraham Lincoln, while his poetry often explored themes of nature and human emotion. Drinkwater was also a prominent figure in the Georgian poetry movement, helping to shape modern English poetry. He contributed to various literary journals and was associated with the Dymock poets.

John Drinkwater

Passage

John Drinkwater, Simple Poetry

To My Son

John Drinkwater, Simple Poetry

Persuasion

John Drinkwater, Simple Poetry

The Cotswold Farmers

John Drinkwater, Simple Poetry

English

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The Woods In June.

        In the sleep-haunted gloom
Born of the slumbrous twilight in these shades,
These vast and venerable collonades,
        I welcome thee, dear June!

        And while with head reclined,
And limbs aweary with my woodland walk,
I listen to the low melodious talk
        Of leaves and singing wind,

        The merry roundelay
Of the swart ploughman, sowing summer grain,
And tinkling sheep-bell on the distant plain,
        And pastures far away,

        Come with a soft refrain,
Like a faint echo from the outer world,
While Peace sits by me with her white wings furled,
        Within my green domain.

        This is my palace, where
Great trunks are amber pillars to support
The blue roof of the vast and silent court,
...

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Summer Morning

The cocks have now the morn foretold,
The sun again begins to peep,
The shepherd, whistling to his fold,
Unpens and frees the captive sheep.
Oer pathless plains at early hours
The sleepy rustic sloomy goes;
The dews, brushed off from grass and flowers,
Bemoistening sop his hardened shoes

While every leaf that forms a shade,
And every flowerets silken top,
And every shivering bent and blade,
Stoops, bowing with a diamond drop.
But soon shall fly those diamond drops,
The red round sun advances higher,
And, stretching oer the mountain tops,
Is gilding sweet the village-spire.

Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze,
Or list the gurgling of the brook;
Or, stretched beneath the shade of trees,
Peruse and pause on Natures book,
When...

John Clare

The Fens

Wandering by the river's edge,
I love to rustle through the sedge
And through the woods of reed to tear
Almost as high as bushes are.
Yet, turning quick with shudder chill,
As danger ever does from ill,
Fear's moment ague quakes the blood,
While plop the snake coils in the flood
And, hissing with a forked tongue,
Across the river winds along.
In coat of orange, green, and blue
Now on a willow branch I view,
Grey waving to the sunny gleam,
Kingfishers watch the ripple stream
For little fish that nimble bye
And in the gravel shallows lie.

Eddies run before the boats,
Gurgling where the fisher floats,
Who takes advantage of the gale
And hoists his handkerchief for sail
On osier twigs that form a mast--
While idly lies, nor wanted mo...

John Clare

From "A Rhapsody"

Sweet solitude, what joy to be alone--
In wild, wood-shady dell to stay for hours.
Twould soften hearts if they were hard as stone
To see glad butterflies and smiling flowers.
Tis pleasant in these quiet lonely places,
Where not the voice of man our pleasure mars,
To see the little bees with coal black faces
Gathering sweets from little flowers like stars.

The wind seems calling, though not understood.
A voice is speaking; hark, it louder calls.
It echoes in the far-outstretching wood.
First twas a hum, but now it loudly squalls;
And then the pattering rain begins to fall,
And it is hushed--the fern leaves scarcely shake,
The tottergrass it scarcely stirs at all.
And then the rolling thunder gets awake,
And from black clouds the lightning flashes break.<...

John Clare

The Return of Summer: An Eclogue

Scene: ASHDOWN FOREST IN MAY

Persons: H.--A POET; C.--HIS DAUGHTER

    H.    Here then, if you insist, my daughter: still,
            I must confess that I preferred the hill.
            The warm scent of the pinewood seemed to me
            The first true breath of summer; did you see
            The waxen hurt-bells with their promised fruit
            Already purple at the blossom's root,
            And thick among the rusty bracken strown
            Sunburnt anemones long overblown?
            Summer is come at last!

    C.                    And that is why
            Mine is a better place than yours to lie.
            This dark old yew tree casts a fuller shade
            Than any pine; the stream is simply made
            For ke...

Henry John Newbolt

The Midlands

Black in the summer night my Cotswold hill
Aslant my window sleeps, beneath a sky
Deep as the bedded violets that fill
March woods with dusky passion. As I lie
Abed between cool walls I watch the host
Of the slow stars lit over Gloucester plain,
And drowsily the habit of these most
Beloved of English lands moves in my brain,
While silence holds dominion of the dark,
Save when the foxes from the spinneys bark.

I see the valleys in their morning mist
Wreathed under limpid hills in moving light,
Happy with many a yeoman melodist:
I see the little roads of twinkling white
Busy with fieldward teams and market gear
Of rosy men, cloth-gaitered, who can tell
The many-minded changes of the year,
Who know why crops and kine fare ill or well;
I see the su...

John Drinkwater