Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE FLITTING, by JOHN CLARE Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: I've left my own old home of homes Last Line: Where castles stood & grandeur died Subject(s): Country Life | ||||||||
I've left mine own old home of homes Green fields & every pleasant place The summer like a stranger comes I pause & hardly know her face I miss the hazels happy green The bluebells quiet hanging blooms Where envys sneer was never seen Where staring malice never comes I miss the heath its yellow furze Molehills & rabbit tracts that lead Through beesom ling & teazle burrs That spread a wilderness indeed The woodland oaks & all below That their white powdered branches shield The mossy paths -- the very crow Croaks music in my native field I sit me in my corner chair That seems to feel itself from home & hear bird-music here & there From awthorn hedge & orchard come I hear but all is strange & new -- I sat on my old bench in June The sailing puddocks shrill "peelew' Oer royce wood seemed a sweeter tune I walk adown the narrow lane The nightingale is singing now But like to me she seems at loss For royce wood & its shielding bough I lean upon the window sill The trees & summer happy seem Green sunny green they shine -- but still My heart goes far away to dream Of happiness & thoughts arise With home bred pictures many a one Green lanes that shut out burning skies & old crooked stiles to rest upon Above them hangs the maple tree Below grass swells a velvet hill & little footpaths sweet to see Goes seeking sweeter places still With bye & bye a brook to cross Oer which a little arch is thrown No brook is here I feel the loss From home & friends & all alone -- The stone pit with us shelvy sides Seemed hanging rocks in my esteem I miss the prospect far & wide From Langley bush & so I seem Alone & in a stranger scene Far far from spots my heart esteems The closen with their ancient green Heaths woods & pastures sunny streams The awthorns here were hung with may But still they seem in deader green The sun een seems to loose its way Nor knows the quarter it is in I dwell on trifles like a child I feel as ill becomes a man & still my thoughts like weedlings wild Grow up to blossom where they can They turn to places known so long & feel that joy was dwelling there So home fed pleasures fill the song That has no present joys to heir I read in books for happiness But books are like the sea to joy They change -- as well give age the glass To hunt its visage when a boy For books they follow fashions new & throw all old esteems away In crowded streets flowers never grew But many there hath died away Some sing the pomps of chivalry As legends of the ancient time Where gold & pearls & mystery Are shadows painted for sublime But passions of sublimity Belong to pain & simpler things & David underneath a tree Sought when a shepherd Salems springs Where moss did into cushions spring Forming a seat of velvet hue A small unnoticed trifling thing To all but heavens hailing dew & Davids crown hath passed away Yet poesy breaths his shepherd skill His palace lost -- & to this day The little moss is blooming still Strange scenes mere shadows are to me Vague unpersonifying things I love with my old home to be By quiet woods & gravel springs Where little pebbles wear as smooth As hermits beads by gentle floods Whose noises doth my spirits sooth & warms them into singing moods Here every tree is strange to me All foreign things were eer I go There's none where boyhood made a swee Or clambered up to rob a crow No hollow tree or woodland bower Well known when joy was beating high Where beauty ran to shun a shower & love took pains to keep her dry & laid the shoaf upon the ground To keep her from the dripping grass & ran for stowks & set them round Till scarce a drop of rain could pass Through -- where the maidens they reclined & sung sweet ballads now forgot Which brought sweet memorys to the mind But here no memory knows them not There have I sat by many a tree & leaned oer many a rural stile & conned my thoughts as joys to me Nought heeding who might frown or smile Twas natures beauty that inspired My heart with raptures not its own & shes a fame that never tires How could I feel myself alone No -- pasture molehills used to lie & talk to me of sunny days & then the glad sheep resting bye All still in ruminating praise Of summer & the pleasant place & every weed & blossom too Was looking upward in my face With friendship welcome "how do ye do' All tennants of an ancient place & heirs of noble heritage Coeval they with adams race & blest with more substantial age For when the world first saw the sun There little flowers beheld him too & when his love for earth begun They were the first his smiles to woo There little lambtoe bunches springs In red tinged & begolden dye For ever & like china kings They come but never seem to die There may-blooms with its little threads Still comes upon the thorny bowers & neer forgets those pinky threads Like fairy pins amid the flowers & still they bloom as on the day They first crowned wilderness & rock When abel haply crowned with may The firstlings of his little flock & Eve might from the matted thorn To deck her lone & lovely brow Reach that same rose the heedless scorn Misnames as the dog rosey now Give me no highflown fangled things No haughty pomp in marching chime Where muses play on golden strings & splendour passes for sublime Where citys stretch as far as fame & fancy's straining eye can go & piled untill the sky for shame Is stooping far away below I love the verse that mild & bland Breaths of green fields & open sky I love the muse that in her hand Bears wreaths of native poesy Who walks nor skips the pasture brook In scorn -- but by the drinking horse Leans oer its little brig to look How far the sallows lean accross & feels a rapture in her breast Upon their root-fringed grains to mark A hermit morehens sedgy nest Just like a naiads summer bark She counts the eggs she cannot reach Admires the spot & loves it well & yearns so natures lessons teach Amid such neighbourhoods to dwell I love the muse who sits her down Upon the molehills little lap Who feels no fear to stain her gown & pauses by the hedgrow gap Not with that affectation praise Of song to sing & never see A field flower grow in all her days Or een a forests aged tree Een here my simple feelings nurse A love for every simple weed & een this little "shepherds purse' Grieves me to cut it up -- Indeed I feel at times a love & joy For every weed & every thing A feeling kindred from a boy A feeling brought with every spring & why -- this "shepherds purse' that grows In this strange spot -- In days gone bye Grew in the little garden rows Of my old home now left -- And I Feel what I never felt before This weed an ancient neighbour here & though I own the spot no more Its every trifle makes it dear The Ivy at the parlour end The woodbine at the garden gate Are all & each affections friend That rendered parting desolate But times will change & friends must part & nature still can make amends Their memory lingers round the heart Like life whose essence is its friends Time looks on pomp with careless moods Or killing apathys disdain -- So where old marble citys stood Poor persecuted weeds remain She feels a love for little things That very few can feel beside & still the grass eternal springs Where castles stood & grandeur died | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE TARIFF by GEORGE HENRY BOKER A DRIVE IN THE COUNTRY by TED KOOSER THERE IS ALWAYS A LITTLE WIND by TED KOOSER COUNTRYSIDE by JOSEPHINE MILES |
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