TO MY OATEN REED
Thou warble wild of rough rude melody!
How oft I've woo'd thee, often thrown thee by;
In many a doubtful rapture touching thee,
Waking thy rural notes in many a sigh:
Fearing the wise, the wealthy, proud and high,
Would scorn as vain thy lowly extasy;
Deeming presumptuous thy uncultur'd themes.
Thus vainly courting Taste's unblemish'd eye,
To list a simple Labourer's artless dreams,
Haply I wander into wide extremes.
But O thou sweet wild-winding rhapsody,
Thou jingling charm that dost my heart control;
I take thee up to smother many a sigh,
And lull the throbbings of a woe- worn soul.
And lull the throbbings of a woe- worn soul.
John Clare
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