Monday, August 11, 2014


John Clare (1793-1864). “Haymaking”
from The Later Poems (1984).

Among the meadow hay cocks
'Tis beautiful to lie
When pleasantly the day looks
And gold like is the sky 

How lovely looks the hay-swarth
When turning to the sun
How richly looks the dark path
When the rickings all are done 

There's nothing looks more lovely
As a meadow field in cock
There's nothing sounds more sweetly
As the evenings six o' clock 

There's nothing sounds so welcome
As their singing at their toil
Sweet maidens with tan'd faces
And bosoms fit to broil

And its beautiful to look on
How the hay-cleared meadow lies
How the sun pours down his welcome heat
Like gold from yonder skies 

There's a calm upon the level
When the sun is getting low
Smooth as a lawn is the green level
Save where swarths their pointings shew

There the mother makes a journey
With a babbie at her breast
While the sun is fit to burn ye
On the sabath day at rest

There's nothing like such beauty
With a woman ere compares
Unless the love within her arms
The infant which she heirs.

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