All Poems

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The Shepherd's Tree

© John Clare

Huge elm, with rifted trunk all notched and scarred,
Like to a warrior's destiny! I love
To stretch me often on thy shadowed sward,
And hear the laugh of summer leaves above;

Tell Summer That I Died

© John Shaw Neilson

When he was old and thin

And knew not night or day

Wood Rides

© John Clare

Who hath not felt the influence that so calms
The weary mind in summers sultry hours
When wandering thickest woods beneath the arms
Of ancient oaks and brushing nameless flowers

In Springtime

© Rudyard Kipling

My garden blazes brightly with the rose-bush and the peach,

And the koil sings above it, in the siris by the well,

Hen's Nest

© John Clare

Among the orchard weeds, from every search,
Snugly and sure, the old hen's nest is made,
Who cackles every morning from her perch
To tell the servant girl new eggs are laid;

Evening Primrose

© John Clare

When once the sun sinks in the west,
And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast;
Almost as pale as moonbeams are,
Or its companionable star,

Written at Dropmore

© Samuel Rogers

Grenville, to thee my gratitude is due

For many an hour of studious musing here,

To A Fallen Elm

© John Clare

Old Elm that murmured in our chimney top
The sweetest anthem autumn ever made
And into mellow whispering calms would drop
When showers fell on thy many coloured shade

TELL ME, LOVE, when I rove o'er some far distant plain,
Shall I cherish the passion that dwells in my breast?
Or will ABSENCE subdue the keen rigours of pain,
And the swift wing of TIME bring the balsam of rest?

Early Nightingale

© John Clare

When first we hear the shy-come nightingales,
They seem to mutter o'er their songs in fear,
And, climb we e'er so soft the spinney rails,
All stops as if no bird was anywhere.

Peace

© Margaret Widdemer

ALL my days are clear again and gentle with forgetting,
Mornings cool with graciousness of time passed stilly by.
Evening sweet with call of birds and lilac-rose sun-setting,
And starshine does not hurt my heart nor night-winds make me cry.

The Cuckoo

© John Clare

The cuckoo, like a hawk in flight,
With narrow pointed wings
Whews o'er our headssoon out of sight
And as she flies she sings:

Inscription

© Francis Thompson

When the last stir of bubbling melodies

Broke as my chants sank underneath the wave

The Vixen

© John Clare

Among the taller wood with ivy hung,
The old fox plays and dances round her young.
She snuffs and barks if any passes by
And swings her tail and turns prepared to fly.

The Mores

© John Clare

Far spread the moorey ground a level scene
Bespread with rush and one eternal green
That never felt the rage of blundering plough
Though centurys wreathed spring's blossoms on its brow

Sonnet XVII. Happy Is England

© John Keats

Happy is England! I could be content
To see no other verdure than its own;
To feel no other breezes than are blown
Through its tall woods with high romances blent:

The Landrail

© John Clare

How sweet and pleasant grows the way
Through summer time again
While Landrails call from day to day
Amid the grass and grain

The Instinct Of Hope

© John Clare

Is there another world for this frail dust
To warm with life and be itself again?
Something about me daily speaks there must,
And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?