Awakes.

Spenser, The Shepheardes Calender, 1579

The SHEPHERD'S CALENDER: SEPTEMBER

Harvest awakes the morning still

And toils rude groups the valleys fill

Deserted is each cottage hearth

To all life save the crickets mirth

Each burring wheel their sabbath meets

Nor walks a gossip in the streets

The bench beneath its eldern bough

Lined oer with grass is empty now

Where blackbirds caged from out the sun

Could whistle while their mistress spun.

All haunt the thronged fields still to share

The harvests lingering bounty there

As yet no meddling boys resort

About the streets in idle sport

The butterflye enjoys his hour

And flirts unchaced from flower to flower

And humming bees that morning calls

From out the low huts mortar walls

Which passing boy no more controuls

Flye undisturbed about their holes

And sparrows in glad chirpings meet

Unpelted in the quiet street

None but imprison'd childern now

Are seen where dames with angry brow

Threaten each younker to his seat

That thro' the school door eyes the street

Or from his horn book turns away

To mourn for liberty and play

Loud are the mornings early sounds

That farm and cottage yard surrounds

The creaking noise of opening gate

And clanking pumps where boys await

With idle motion to supply

The thirst of cattle crowding bye

The low of cows and bark of dogs

And cackling hens and wineing hogs

Swell high-while at the noise awoke

Old goody seeks her milking cloak

And hastens out to milk the cow

And fill the troughs to feed the sow

Or seeking old hens laid astray

Or from young chickens drives away

The circling kite that round them flyes

Waiting the chance to seize the prize

Hogs trye thro gates the street to gain

And steal into the fields of grain

From nights dull prison comes the duck

Waddling eager thro the muck

Squeezing thro the orchard pales

Where mornings bounty rarely fails

Eager gobbling as they pass

Dew worms thro the padded grass

Where blushing apples round and red

Load down the boughs and pat the head

Of longing maid that hither goes

To hang on lines the drying cloaths

Who views them oft with tempted eye

And steals one as she passes bye

Where the holly oak so tall

Far oer tops the garden wall

That latest blooms for bees provide

Hived on stone benches close beside

The bees their teazing music hum

And threaten war to all that come

Save the old dame whose jealous care

Places a trapping bottle there

Filled with mock sweets in whose disguise

The honey loving hornet dies

Upon the dovecoats mossy slates

The piegons coo around their mates

Where morns sunbeams early fall

By the barn or stable wall

Basking hens in playfull rout

Flap the smoaking dust about

In the barn hole sits the cat

Watching within the thirsty rat

Who oft at morn its dwelling leaves

To drink the moisture from the eves

The redbreast with his nimble eye

Dare scarcely stop to catch the flye

That tangled in the spiders snare

Mourns in vain for freedom there

The dog beside the threshold lyes

Mocking sleep with half shut eyes

With head crouched down upon his feet

Till strangers pass his sunny seat

Then quick he pricks his ears to hark

And bustles up to growl and bark

While boys in fear stop short their song

And sneak on hurrys fears along

And beggar creeping like a snail

To make his hungry hopes prevail

Oer the warm heart of charity

Leaves his lame halt and hastens bye

The maid afield now leaves the farm

With brimming bottles on her arm

Loitering unseen in narrow lane

To be oertook by following swain

Who happy thus her truth to prove

Carrys the load and talks of love

Full soon the harvest waggons sound

Rumbling like thunder all around

In ceasless speed the corn to load

Hurrying down the dusty road

While driving boy with eager eye

Watches the church clock passing bye

Whose gilt hands glitter in the sun

To see how far the hours have run

Right happly in the breathless day

To see it wearing fast away

Yet now and then a sudden shower

Will bring to toil a resting hour

When under sheltering shocks a crowd

Of merry voices mingle loud

Wearing the short lived boon along

With vulgar tale and merry song

Draining with leisures laughing eye

Each welcome bubbling bottle drye

Till peeping suns dry up the rain

Then off they start to toil again

Anon the fields are wearing clear

And glad sounds hum in labours ear

When childern halo 'here they come

And run to meet the harvest home

Stuck thick with boughs and thronged with boys

Who mingle loud a merry noise

Glad that the harvests end is nigh

And weary labour nearly bye

Where when they meet the stack thronged yard

Cross bunns or pence their shouts reward

Then comes the harvest supper night

Which rustics welcome with delight

When merry game and tiresome tale

And songs increasing with the ale

Their mingled uproar interpose

To crown the harvests happy close

While rural mirth that there abides

Laughs till she almost cracks her sides

Now harvests busy hum declines

And labour half its help resigns

Boys glad at heart to play return

The shepherds to their peace sojourn

Rush-bosomed solitudes among

Which busy toil disturbed so long

The gossip happy all is oer

Visits again her neighbours door

For scandals idle tales to dwell

Which harvest had no time to tell

And on each bench at even tide

Which trailing vine leaves nearly hide

And free from all its sultry strife

Enjoy once more their idle life

A few whom waning toil reprieves

Thread the forests sea of leaves

Where the pheasant loves to hide

And the darkest glooms abide

Beneath the old oaks mossd and grey

Whose shadows seem as old as they

Where time hath many seasons won

Since aught beneath them saw the sun.

Within these brambly solitudes

The ragged noisy boy intrudes

To gather nuts that ripe and brown

As soon as shook will patter down

Thus harvest ends its busy reign

And leaves the fields their peace again

Where autumns shadows idly muse

And tinge the trees with many hues

Amid whose scenes I'm feign to dwell

And sing of what I love so well

But hollow winds and tumbling floods

And humming showers and moaning woods

All startle into sudden strife

And wake a mighty lay to life

Making amid their strains divine

All songs in vain so mean as mine

John Clare