AN UNCOMMON THOUGHT

"The real trick to life is not to be in the know, but to be in the mystery."
-Fred Alan Wolf

03 August 2016

Enchantress.


TO THE RURAL MUSE  

Simple enchantress! wreath'd in summer blooms  
Of slender bent-stalks topt with feathery down, 
Heath's creeping vetch, and glaring yellow brooms,  
With ash-keys wavering on thy rushy crown; 
Simple enchantress! how I've woo'd thy smiles,  
How often sought thee far from flush'd renown; 
Sought thee unseen where fountain-waters fell;  
Touch'd thy wild reed unheard, in weary toils; 
And though my heavy hand thy song defiles,  
'Tis hard to leave thee, and to bid farewell.  

Simple enchantress! ah, from all renown, 
Far off, my soul hath warm'd in bliss to see  
The varied figures on thy summer-gown, 
That nature's finger works so 'witchingly;    
The coloured flower, the silken leaves that crown 
Green nestling bower-bush, and high towering  tree;  
Brooks of the sunny green and shady dell:  
Ah, sweet full many a time they've been to me;  
And though my weak song falters, sung to thee, 
I cannot, wild enchantress, bid farewell.  

Still must I seek thee, though I wind the brook  
When morning sunbeams o'er the waters glide, 
And trace thy footsteps in the lonely nook  
As evening moists the daisy by thy side; 
Ah, though I woo thee on thy bed of thyme,  
If courting thee be deem'd ambition's pride, 
It is so passing sweet with thee to dwell  
If love for thee in clowns be call'd a crime, 
Forgive presumption, O thou queen of rhyme!  
I've lov'd thee long, I cannot bid farewell.

John Clare 

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