UNDERSONG
The happy white throat on the sweeing bough
Swayed by the impulse of the gadding wind
That ushers in the showers of april – now
Singeth right joyously and now reclined
Croucheth and clingeth to her moving seat
To keep her hold and till the wind for rest
Pauses she mutters inward melody
That seems her hearts rich thinkings to repeat
And when the branch is still her little breast
Swells out in raptures gushing symphonies
And then against her brown wing softly prest
The wind comes playing an enraptured guest
This way and that she swees – till gusts arise
More boisterous in their play – when off she flies.
John Clare
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