Old stone-pits, with veined ivy overhung;
Wild crooked brooks, o’er which is rudely flung
A rail, and plank that bends beneath the tread;
Old narrow lanes, where trees meet over-head;
Path-stiles, on which a steeple we espy,
Peeping and stretching in the distant sky;
Heaths overspread with furze-bloom’s sunny shine,
Where Wonder pauses to exclaim, “Divine!”
Old ponds, dim shadowed with a broken tree;—
These are the picturesque of Taste to
me;
While painting Winds, to make complete the scene,
In rich confusion mingle every green,
Waving the sketchy pencils in their hands,
Shading the living scenes to fairy lands.
Shading the living scenes to fairy lands.
John Clare
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