"I am not one who was born in the custody of wisdom. I am one who is fond of olden times and intense in quest of the sacred knowing of the ancients." Gustave Courbet

02 November 2023

Restore.

Kent, Golden Fall, 1955


WRITTEN in NOVEMBER

  Autumn, I love thy parting look to view
    In cold November's day, so bleak and bare,
    When, thy life's dwindled thread worn nearly thro',
    With ling'ring, pott'ring pace, and head bleach'd bare,
    Thou, like an old man, bidd'st the world adieu.
    I love thee well: and often, when a child,
    Have roam'd the bare brown heath a flower to find;
    And in the moss-clad vale, and wood-bank wild
    Have cropt the little bell-flowers, pearly blue,
    That trembling peep the shelt'ring bush behind.
    When winnowing north-winds cold and bleaky blew,
    How have I joy'd, with dithering hands, to find,
    Each fading flower; and still how sweet the blast,
    Would bleak November's hour restore the joy that's past.

John Clare

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