Friday, May 29, 2015

Old stone

Old stone pits all with ivy overhung
Rude crooked brooks oer which is idly flung
A rail and plank that bends beneath the tread
Old narrow lanes where trees meet over head
And gaps through bramble hedges where we spy
A steeple peeping in the stretching sky
And heaths oer spread with furze blooms sunny shine
Where praise in wonderment exclaims divine
Old ponds dim shadowed with a broken tree
These are the picturesque of taste to me
While the wild wind to make compleat the scene
In rich confusion mingles every green
Waving her sketchy pencil in her hand
That tints the moving scene

-John Clare

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