The crib stock fothered, horses suppered up,
And cows in sheds all littered down in straw,
The threshers gone, the owls are left to whoop,
The ducks go waddling with distended craw
Through little hole made in the hen-roost door,
And geese with idle gabble never o`er
Bait careless hog until he tumbles down,
Insult provoking spite to noise the more;
While fowl high-perched blink with contemptuous frown
On all the noise and bother heard below;
Over the stable-ridge in crowds,the crow,
With jackdaws intermixed, known by their noise,
To the warm woods behind the village go;
And whistling home for bed go weary boys.
John Clare (1793 - 1864)
1 comment:
That's not one I know, but John Clare certainly had his finger on the pulse when it came to the countryside in every mood.
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