Sunday, September 24, 2023

BW39: Autumn by John Clare




John Clare

I love the fitful gust that shakes

  The casement all the day,

And from the glossy elm tree takes

  The faded leaves away,

Twirling them by the window pane

With thousand others down the lane.

I love to see the shaking twig

  Dance till the shut of eve,

The sparrow on the cottage rig,

  Whose chirp would make believe

That Spring was just now flirting by

In Summer's lap with flowers to lie.

I love to see the cottage smoke

  Curl upwards through the trees,

The pigeons nestled round the cote

  On November days like these;

The cock upon the dunghill crowing,

The mill sails on the heath a-going.

The feather from the raven's breast

  Falls on the stubble lea,

The acorns near the old crow's nest

  Drop pattering down the tree;

The grunting pigs, that wait for all,

Scramble and hurry where they fall.

Our post sponsored by the letter N which stands for Nature, noble, nimble, and nerdy. 

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