Quiet.

Spenser, Month of August, 1579

SHEPHERD's CALENDAR: August

Harvest approaches with its bustling day

The wheat tans brown and barley bleaches grey

In yellow garb the oat land intervenes

And tawney glooms the valley thronged with beans

Silent the village grows, wood wandering dreams

Seem not so lovely as its quiet seems

Doors are shut up as on a winters day

And not a child about them lies at play

The dust that winnows neath the breezes feet

Is all that stirs about the silent street

Fancy might think that desert spreading fear

Had whisperd terrors into quiets ear

Or plundering armys past the place had come

And drove the lost inhabitants from home

The fields now claim them where a motley crew

Of old and young their daily tasks pursue

The barleys beard is grey and wheat is brown

And wakens toil betimes to leave the town

The reapers leave their beds before the sun

And gleaners follow when home toils are done

To pick the littered ear the reaper leaves

And glean in open fields among the sheaves

The ruddy child nursed in the lap of care

In toils rude ways to do its little share

Beside its mother poddles oer the land

Sun burnt and stooping with a weary hand

Picking its tiney glean of corn or wheat

While crackling stubbles wound its legs and feet

Full glad it often is to sit awhile

Upon a smooth green baulk to ease its toil

And feign would spend an idle hour to play

With insects strangers to the moiling day

Creeping about each rush and grassy stem

And often wishes it was one of them

In weariness of heart that it might lye

Hid in the grass from the days burning eye

That raises tender blisters on his skin

Thro holes or openings that have lost a pin

Free from the crackling stubs to toil and glean

And smiles to think how happy it had been

Whilst its expecting mother stops to tye

Her handful up and waiting his supply

Misses the resting younker from her side

And shouts of rods and morts of threats beside

Pointing to the grey willows while she tells

His fears shall fetch one if he still rebells

Picturing harsh truths in its unpracticed eye

How they who idle in the harvest lye

Shall well deserving in the winter pine

Or hunt the hedges with the birds and swine

In vain he wishes that the rushes height

Were tall as trees to hide him from her sight

Leaving his pleasant seat he sighs and rubs

His legs and shows scratchd wounds from piercing stubs

To make excuse for play but she disdains

His little wounds and smiles while he complains

And as he stoops adown in troubles sore

She sees his grief and bids him sob no more

As bye and bye on the next sabbath day

She'll give him well earned pence as well as play

When he may buy almost with out a stint

Sweet candied horehound cakes and pepper mint

Or streaking sticks of lusious lolipop

What ere he chuses from the tempting shop

Wi in whose diamond winder shining lye

Things of all sorts to tempt his eager eye

Rich sugar plumbs in phials shining bright

In every hue young fancys to delight

Coaches and ladys of gilt ginger bread

And downy plumbs and apples streaked with red

Such promises all sorrows soon displace

And smiles are instant kindled in his face

Scorning all troubles which he felt before

He picks the trailing ears and mourns no more

The fields are all alive with busy noise

Of labours sounds and insects humming joys

Some oer the glittering sickle sweating stoop

Startling full oft the partridge coveys up

Some oer the rustling scythe go bending on

And shockers follow where their toils have gone

First turning swaths to wither in the sun

Where mice from terrors dangers nimbly run

Leaving their tender young in fears alarm

Lapt up in nests of chimbled grasses warm

And oft themselves for safty search in vain

From the rude boy or churlish hearted swain

Who beat their stone chinkd forks about the groun(

And spread an instant murder all around

Tho oft the anxious maidens tender prayer

Urges the clown their little lives to spare

Who sighs while trailing the long rake along

At scenes so cruel and forgets her song

And stays wi love his murder aiming hand

Some ted the puffing winnow down the land

And others following roll them up in heaps

While cleanly as a barn door beesome sweeps

The hawling drag wi gathering weeds entwind

And singing rakers end the toils behind

When the sun stoops to meet the western sky

And noons hot hours have wanderd weary bye

They seek an awthorn bush or willow tree

Or stouk or shock where coolest shadows be

Where baskets heapd and unbroachd bottles lye

Which dogs in absence watchd with wary eye

To catch their breath awhile and share the boon

Which beavering time alows their toil at noon

All gathering sit on stubbs or sheaves the hour

Where scarlet poppys linger still in flower

Stript in his shirt the hot swain drops adown

And close beside him in her unpind gown

Next to her favoured swain the maiden steals

Blushing at kindness which her love reveals

Who makes a seat for her of things around

And drops beside her on the naked ground

Wearied wi brambles catching at her gown

And pulling nutts from branches pulld adown

By friendly swain the maid Wi heaving breast

Upon her lovers shoulder leans at rest

Then from its cool retreat the beer they bring

And hand the stout hooped bottle round the ring

Each swain soaks hard-the maiden ere she sips

Shrieks at the bold whasp settling on her lips

That seems determined only hers to greet

As if it fancied they were cherrys sweet

So dog forgoes his sleep awhile or play

Springing at frogs that rustling jump away

To watch each morsel that the boon bestows

And wait the bone or crumb the shepherd throws

For shepherds are no more of ease possest

But share the harvests labours with the rest

When day declines and labour meets repose

The bawling boy his evening journey goes

At toils unwearied call the first and last

He drives his horses to their nights repast

In dewey close or meadow to sojourn

And often ventures on his still return

Oer garden pales or orchard walls to hie

When sleeps safe key hath locked up dangers eye

All but the mastiff watching in the dark

Who snufts and knows him and forbears to bark

With fearful haste he climbs each loaded tree

And picks for prizes which the ripest be

Pears plumbs or filberts covered oer in leams

While the pale moon creeps high in peaceful dreams

And oer his harvest theft in jealous light

Fills empty shadows with the power to fright

And owlet screaming as it bounces nigh

That from some barn hole pops and hurries bye

Scard at the cat upon her nightly watch

For rats that come for dew upon the thatch

He hears the noise and trembling to escape

While every object grows a dismal shape

Drops from the tree in fancys swiftest dread

By ghosts pursued and scampers home to bed

Quick tumbling oer the mossy mouldering wall

And looses half his booty in the fall

Where soon as ere the morning opes its eyes

The restless hogs will happen on the prize

And crump adown the mellow and the green

And makes all seem as nothing ne'er had been

Amid the broils of harvests weary reign

How sweet the sabbath wakes its rest again

For each weary mind what rapture dwells

To hear once more its pleasant chiming bells

That from each steeple peeping here and there

Murmur a soothing lullaby to care

The shepherd journying on his morning rounds

Pauses awhile to hear their pleasing sounds

While the glad childern free from toils employ

Mimic the ding dong sounds and laugh for joy

The fields themselves seem happy to be free

Where insects chatter with unusual glee

While solitude the stubbs and grass among

Apears to muse and listen to the song

In quiet peace awakes the welcomed morn

Men tired and childern with their gleaning worn

Weary and stiff lye round their doors the day

To rest themselves with little heart for play

No more keck horns in homestead close resounds

As in their school boy days at hare and hounds

Nor running oer the street from wall to wall

With eager shouts at 'cuck and catch the ball'

In calm delight the sabbath wears along

Yet round the cross at noon a tempted throng

Of little younkers with their pence repair

To buy the downy plumb and lucious pear

That melt i' th mouth-which gardners never fail

For gains strong impulse to expose for sale

And on the circling cross steps in the sun

Sit when the parson has his sermon done

When grandams that against his rules rebell

Come wi their baskets heapd wi fruit to sell

That thither all the season did pursue

Wi mellow goosberrys of every hue

Green ruffs and raspberry reds and drops of gold

That makes mouths water often to behold

Sold out to clowns in totts oft deemd too small

Who grudging much the price eat husks and all

Nor leaves a fragment round to cheer the eye

Of searching swine that murmurs hungry bye

And currans red and white on cabbage leaves

While childerns fingers itches to be thieves

And black red cherrys shining to the sight

As rich as brandy held before the light

Now these are past he still as sunday comes

Sits on the cross wi baskets heapd wi plumbs

And Jenitens streakd apples suggar sweet

Others spice scented ripening wi the wheat

And pears that melt ith' mouth like honey which

He oft declares to make their spirits itch

They are so juicy ripe and better still

So rich they een might suck em thro a quill

Here at their leisure gather many a clown

To talk of grain and news about the town

And here the boy wi toils earnd penny comes

In hurrying speed to purchase pears or plumbs

And oer the basket hangs wi many a smile

Wi hat in hand to hold his prize the while

Not so the boys that begs for pence in vain

Of deaf eard dames that threat while they complain

Who talk of the good dinners they have eat

And wanting more as nothing but consiet

Vowing they ne'er shall throw good pence away

So bids them off and be content wi play

Reaching her rod that hangs the chimney oer

And scaring their rude whinings to the door

Who sob aloud and hang their hats adown

To hide their tears and sawn along the town

Venturing wi sullen step his basket nigh

And often dipping a desiring eye

Stone hearted dames thrifts errors to believe

Who make their little bellys yearn to thieve

But strong temptation must to fears resign

For close beside the stocks in terror shine

So choaking substitutes for loss of pelf

He keeps his hungry fingers to himself

And mopes and sits the sabbath hours away

Wi heart too weary and too sad for play

So Sunday's scenes and leisure passes bye

In rests soft peace and home tranquillity

Till Monday morning doth its cares pursue

And wakes the harvests busy toils anew

John Clare