To An Early Butterly.

Thrice welcome here again, thou flutt'ring thing,
That gaily seek'st about the opening flower,
And opest and shutt'st thy gaudy-spangled wing
Upon its bosom in the sunny hour;
Fond grateful thoughts from thy appearance spring:
To see thee, Fly, warm me once more to sing
His universal care who hapt thee down,
And did thy winter-dwelling please to give.
That Being's smiles on me dampt winter's frown,
And snatch'd me from the storm, and bade me live.
And now again the welcome season's come,
'Tis thine and mine, in nature's grateful pride,
To thank that God who snatch'd us from the tomb,
And stood our prop, when all gave way beside.

John Clare

John Clare was an English poet known for his celebrations of the English countryside and lamentation of its disruption. Born in Helpston, Northamptonshire, Clare was initially a farm laborer. His poetry is characterized by its natural imagery and rustic language. Despite periods of fame during his period, Clare spent the later part of his life in an asylum due to mental health issues. His works gained greater recognition posthumously. Clare's major poem collections include "Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery" and "The Shepherd's Calendar."

John Clare

I Pluck Summer Blossoms

John Clare, Simple Poetry

Scandal

John Clare, Simple Poetry

The Peasant Poet

John Clare, Simple Poetry

Field Path

John Clare, Simple Poetry

English

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To The Butterfly.

Lovely insect, haste away,
Greet once more the sunny day;
Leave, O leave the murky barn,
Ere trapping spiders thee discern;
Soon as seen, they will beset
Thy golden wings with filmy net,
Then all in vain to set thee free,
Hopes all lost for liberty.
Never think that I belie,
Never fear a winter sky;
Budding oaks may now be seen,
Starry daisies deck the green,
Primrose groups the woods adorn,
Cloudless skies, and blossom'd thorn;
These all prove that spring is here,
Haste away then, never fear.
Skim o'er hill and valley free,
Perch upon the blossom'd tree;
Though my garden would be best,
Couldst thou but contended rest:
There the school-boy has no power
Thee to chase from flower to flower,
Harbour none for cruel sport,
Far awa...

John Clare

A Sigh.

Again freckled cowslips are gilding the plain,
And crow-flowers yellow again o'er the lea,
Again the speck'd throstle comes in with her strain,
And welcomes the spring--but no spring can I see.

I once hail'd the throstle, her singing begun,
And bath'd in spring's dew when her flower met my eyes;
I sought for the kingcup all cloth'd in the sun,
And gather'd my cowslips, and joy'd in the prize.

They brought nature's spring, and they comforted me,
They wip'd winter off, and did pleasure restore;
But, alas! in their tidings a change can I see,
Fate's added a postscript, "Thy spring is no more."

John Clare

The Skylark

Although I'm in prison
Thy song is uprisen,
Thou'rt singing away to the feathery cloud,
In the blueness of morn,
Over fields of green corn,
With a song sweet and trilling, and rural and loud.

When the day is serenest,
When the corn is the greenest,
Thy bosom mounts up and floats in the light,
And sings in the sun,
Like a vision begun
Of pleasure, of love, and of lonely delight.

The daisies they whiten
Plains the sunbeams now brighten,
And warm thy snug nest where thy russet eggs lie,
From whence thou'rt now springing,
And the air is now ringing,
To show that the minstrel of Spring is on high.

The cornflower is blooming,
The cowslip is coming,
And many new buds on the silken grass lie:
On the earth's shelt'ring breast<...

John Clare

To The Lark

Bird of the morn,
When roseate clouds begin
To show the opening dawn
Thou gladly sing'st it in,
And o'er the sweet green fields and happy vales
Thy pleasant song is heard, mixed with the morning gales.

Bird of the morn,
What time the ruddy sun
Smiles on the pleasant corn
Thy singing is begun,
Heartfelt and cheering over labourers' toil,
Who chop in coppice wild and delve the russet soil.

Bird of the sun,
How dear to man art thou!
When morning has begun
To gild the mountain's brow,
How beautiful it is to see thee soar so blest,
Winnowing thy russet wings above thy twitchy nest.

Bird of the Summer's day,
How oft I stand to hear
Thee sing thy airy lay,
With music wild and clear,
Till thou becom'st a speck upon the s...

John Clare

Early Spring.

Winter is past--the little bee resumes
Her share of sun and shade, and o'er the lea
Hums her first hymnings to the flowers' perfumes,
And wakes a sense of gratefulness in me:
The little daisy keeps its wonted pace,
Ere March by April gets disarm'd of snow;
A look of joy opes on its smiling face,
Turn'd to that Power that suffers it to blow.
Ah, pleasant time, as pleasing as you be,
One still more pleasing Hope reserves for me;
Where suns, unsetting, one long summer shine,
Flowers endless bloom, where winter ne'er destroys:
O may the good man's righteous end be mine,
That I may witness these unfading joys.

John Clare

Summer.

How sweet, when weary, dropping on a bank,
Turning a look around on things that be!
E'en feather-headed grasses, spindling rank,
A trembling to the breeze one loves to see;
And yellow buttercup, where many a bee
Comes buzzing to its head and bows it down;
And the great dragon-fly with gauzy wings,
In gilded coat of purple, green, or brown,
That on broad leaves of hazel basking clings,
Fond of the sunny day:--and other things
Past counting, please me while thus here I lie.
But still reflective pains are not forgot:
Summer sometime shall bless this spot, when I
Hapt in the cold dark grave, can heed it not.

John Clare