Whistles.

Spenser, The Shepherd's Calendar: May, 1579

THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR: MAY

Come queen of months in company

Wi all thy merry minstrelsy

The restless cuckoo absent long

And twittering swallows chimney song

And hedge row crickets notes that run

From every bank that fronts the sun

And swathy bees about the grass

That stops wi every bloom they pass

And every minute every hour

Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower

And toil and childhoods humming joys

For there is music in the noise

The village childern mad for sport

In school times leisure ever short

That crick and catch the bouncing ball

And run along the church yard wall

Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims

In times bad memory hath no names

Oft racing round the nookey church

Or calling ecchos in the porch

And jilting oer the weather cock

Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock

Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights

Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights

The green grass swelld in many a heap

Where kin and friends and parents sleep

Unthinking in their jovial cry

That time shall come when they shall lye

As lowly and as still as they

While other boys above them play

Heedless as they do now to know

The unconcious dust that lies below

The shepherd goes wi happy stride

Wi moms long shadow by his side

Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may

That once was over shoes in clay

While martins twitter neath his eves

Which he at early morning leaves

The driving boy beside his team

Will oer the may month beauty dream

And cock his hat and turn his eye

On flower and tree and deepning skye

And oft bursts loud in fits of song

And whistles as he reels along

Crack[ing] his whip in starts of joy

A happy dirty driving boy

The youth who leaves his corner stool

Betimes for neighbouring village school

While as a mark to urge him right

The church spires all the way in sight

Wi cheerings from his parents given

Starts neath the joyous smiles of heaven

And sawns wi many an idle stand

Wi bookbag swinging in his hand

And gazes as he passes bye

On every thing that meets his eye

Young lambs seem tempting him to play

Dancing and bleating in his way

Wi trembling tails and pointed ears

They follow him and loose their fears

He smiles upon their sunny faces

And feign woud join their happy races

The birds that sing on bush and tree

Seem chirping for his company

And all in fancys idle whim

Seem keeping holiday but him

He lolls upon each resting stile

To see the fields so sweetly smile

To see the wheat grow green and long

And list the weeders toiling song

Or short not[e] of the changing thrush

Above him in the white thorn bush

That oer the leaning stile bends low

Loaded wi mockery of snow

Mozzld wi many a lushing thread

Of crab tree blossoms delicate red

He often bends wi many a wish

Oer the brig rail to view the fish

Go sturting by in sunny gleams

And chucks in the eye dazzld streams

Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch

The swarming struttle come to catch

Them where they to the bottom sile

Sighing in fancys joy the while

Hes cautiond not to stand so nigh

By rosey milkmaid tripping bye

Where he admires wi fond delight

And longs to be there mute till night

He often ventures thro the day

At truant now and then to play

Rambling about the field and plain

Seeking larks nests in the grain

And picking flowers and boughs of may

To hurd awhile and throw away

Lurking neath bushes from the sight

Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night

Listing each hour for church clocks hum

To know the hour to wander home

That parents may not think him long

Nor dream of his rude doing wrong

Dreading thro the night wi dreaming pain

To meet his masters wand again

Each hedge is loaded thick wi green

And where the hedger late hath been

Tender shoots begin to grow

From the mossy stumps below

While sheep and cow that teaze the grain

will nip them to the root again

They lay their bill and mittens bye

And on to other labours hie

While wood men still on spring intrudes

And thins the shadow solitudes

Wi sharpend axes felling down

The oak trees budding into brown

Where as they crash upon the ground

A crowd of labourers gather round

And mix among the shadows dark

To rip the crackling staining bark

From off the tree and lay when done

The rolls in lares to meet the sun

Depriving yearly where they come

The green wood pecker of its home

That early in the spring began

Far from the sight of troubling man

And bord their round holes in each tree

In fancys sweet security

Till startld wi the woodmans noise

It wakes from all its dreaming joys

The blue bells too that thickly bloom

Where man was never feared to come

And smell smocks that from view retires

Mong rustling leaves and bowing briars

And stooping lilys of the valley

That comes wi shades and dews to dally

White beady drops on slender threads

Wi broad hood leaves above their heads

Like white robd maids in summer hours

Neath umberellas shunning showers

These neath the barkmens crushing treads

Oft perish in their blooming beds

Thus stript of boughs and bark in white

Their trunks shine in the mellow light

Beneath the green surviving trees

That wave above them in the breeze

And waking whispers slowly bends

As if they mournd their fallen friends

Each morning now the weeders meet

To cut the thistle from the wheat

And ruin in the sunny hours

Full many wild weeds of their flowers

Corn poppys that in crimson dwell

Calld 'head achs' from their sickly smell

And carlock yellow as the sun

That oer the may fields thickly run

And 'iron weed' content to share

The meanest spot that spring can spare

Een roads where danger hourly comes

Is not wi out its purple blooms

And leaves wi points like thistles round

Thickset that have no strength to wound

That shrink to childhoods eager hold

Like hair-and with its eye of gold

And scarlet starry points of flowers

Pimpernel dreading nights and showers

Oft calld 'the shepherds weather glass'

That sleep till suns have dyd the grass

Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom

Till clouds or threatning shadows come

Then close it shuts to sleep again

Which weeders see and talk of rain

And boys that mark them shut so soon

will call them 'John go bed at noon

And fumitory too a name

That superstition holds to fame

Whose red and purple mottled flowers

Are cropt by maids in weeding hours

To boil in water milk and way1

For washes on an holiday

To make their beauty fair and sleak

And scour the tan from summers cheek

And simple small forget me not

Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot

I'th'2 middle of its tender blue

That gains from poets notice due

These flowers the toil by crowds destroys

And robs them of their lowly joys

That met the may wi hopes as sweet

As those her suns in gardens meet

And oft the dame will feel inclind

As childhoods memory comes to mind

To turn her hook away and spare

The blooms it lovd to gather there

My wild field catalogue of flowers

Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers

Tedious and long as they may be

To some, they never weary me

The wood and mead and field of grain

I coud hunt oer and oer again

And talk to every blossom wild

Fond as a parent to a child

And cull them in my childish joy

By swarms and swarms and never cloy

When their lank shades oer morning pearls

Shrink from their lengths to little girls

And like the clock hand pointing one

Is turnd and tells the morning gone

They leave their toils for dinners hour

Beneath some hedges bramble bower

And season sweet their savory meals

Wi joke and tale and merry peals

Of ancient tunes from happy tongues

While linnets join their fitful songs

Perchd oer their heads in frolic play

Among the tufts of motling may

The young girls whisper things of love

And from the old dames hearing move

Oft making 'love knotts' in the shade

Of blue green oat or wheaten blade

And trying simple charms and spells

That rural superstition tells

They pull the little blossom threads

From out the knapweeds button heads

And put the husk wi many a smile

In their white bosoms for awhile

Who if they guess aright the swain

That loves sweet fancys trys to gain

Tis said that ere its lain an hour

Twill blossom wi a second flower

And from her white breasts hankerchief

Bloom as they ne'er had lost a leaf

When signs appear that token wet

As they are neath the bushes met

The girls are glad wi hopes of play

And harping of the holiday

A hugh blue bird will often swim

Along the wheat when skys grow dim

Wi clouds-slow as the gales of spring

In motion wi dark shadowd wing

Beneath the coming storm it sails

And lonly chirps the wheat hid quails

That came to live wi spring again

And start when summer browns the grain

They start the young girls joys afloat

Wi 'wet my foot' its yearly note

So fancy doth the sound explain

And proves it oft a sign of rain

About the moor 'mong sheep and cow

The boy or old man wanders now

Hunting all day wi hopful pace

Each thick sown rushy thistly place

For plover eggs while oer them flye

The fearful birds wi teazing cry

Trying to lead their steps astray

And coying him another way

And be the weather chill or warm

Wi brown hats truckd beneath his arm

Holding each prize their search has won

They plod bare headed to the sun

Now dames oft bustle from their wheels

Wi childern scampering at their heels

To watch the bees that hang and swive

In clumps about each thronging hive

And flit and thicken in the light

While the old dame enjoys the sight

And raps the while their warming pans

A spell that superstition plans

To coax them in the garden bounds

As if they lovd the tinkling sounds

And oft one hears the dinning noise

Which dames believe each swarm decoys

Around each village day by day

Mingling in the warmth of may

Sweet scented herbs her skill contrives

To rub the bramble platted hives

Fennels thread leaves and crimpld balm

To scent the new house of the swarm

The thresher dull as winter days

And lost to all that spring displays

Still mid his barn dust forcd to stand

Swings his frail round wi weary hand

While oer his head shades thickly creep

And hides the blinking owl asleep

And bats in cobweb corners bred

Sharing till night their murky bed

The sunshine trickles on the floor

Thro every crevice of the door

And makes his barn where shadows dwell

As irksome as a prisoners cell

And as he seeks his daily meal

As schoolboys from their tasks will steal

ile often stands in fond delay

To see the daisy in his way

And wild weeds flowering on the wall

That will his childish sports recall

Of all the joys that came wi spring

The twirling top the marble ring

The gingling halfpence hussld up

At pitch and toss the eager stoop

To pick up heads, the smuggeld plays

Neath hovels upon sabbath days

When parson he is safe from view

And clerk sings amen in his pew

The sitting down when school was oer

Upon the threshold by his door

Picking from mallows sport to please

Each crumpld seed he calld a cheese

And hunting from the stackyard sod

The stinking hen banes belted pod

By youths vain fancys sweetly fed

Christning them his loaves of bread

He sees while rocking down the street

Wi weary hands and crimpling feet

Young childern at the self same games

And hears the self same simple names

Still floating on each happy tongue

Touchd wi the simple scene so strong

Tears almost start and many a sigh

Regrets the happiness gone bye

And in sweet natures holiday

His heart is sad while all is gay

How lovly now are lanes and balks

For toils and lovers sunday walks

The daisey and the buttercup

For which the laughing childern stoop

A hundred times throughout the day

In their rude ramping summer play

So thickly now the pasture crowds

In gold and silver sheeted clouds

As if the drops in april showers

Had woo'd the sun and swoond to flowers

The brook resumes its summer dresses

Purling neath grass and water cresses

And mint and flag leaf swording high

Their blooms to the unheeding eye

And taper bowbent hanging rushes

And horse tail childerns bottle brushes

And summer tracks about its brink

Is fresh again where cattle drink

And on its sunny bank the swain

Stretches his idle length again

Soon as the sun forgets the day

The moon looks down on the lovly may

And the little star his friend and guide

Travelling together side by side

And the seven stars and charleses wain1

Hangs smiling oer green woods agen

The heaven rekindles all alive

Wi light the may bees round the hive

Swarm not so thick in mornings eye

As stars do in the evening skye

All all are nestling in their joys

The flowers and birds and pasture boys

The firetail, long a stranger, comes

To his last summer haunts and homes

To hollow tree and crevisd wall

And in the grass the rails odd call

That featherd spirit stops the swain

To listen to his note again

And school boy still in vain retraces

The secrets of his hiding places

In the black thorns crowded cops~e1

Thro its varied turns and stops

The nightingale its ditty weaves

Hid in a multitude of leaves

The boy stops short to hear the strain

And 'sweet jug jug' he mocks again

The yellow hammer builds its nest

By banks where sun beams earliest rest

That drys the dews from off the grass

Shading it from all that pass

Save the rude boy wi ferret gaze

That hunts thro evry secret maze

He finds its pencild eggs agen

All streakd wi lines as if a pen

By natures freakish hand was took

To scrawl them over like a book

And from these many mozzling marks

The school boy names them 'writing larks'

Bum barrels twit on bush and tree

Scarse bigger then a bumble bee

And in a white thorns leafy rest

It builds its curious pudding-nest

Wi hole beside as if a mouse

Had built the little barrel house

Toiling full many a lining feather

And bits of grey tree moss together

Amid the noisey rooky park

Beneath the firdales branches dark

The little golden crested wren

Hangs up his glowing nest agen

And sticks it to the furry leaves

As martins theirs beneath the eaves

The old hens leave the roost betimes

And oer the garden pailing climbs

To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil

And if unwatchd his crops to spoil

Oft cackling from the prison yard

To peck about the houseclose sward

Catching at butterflys and things

Ere they have time to try their wings

The cattle feels the breath of may

And kick and toss their heads in play

The ass beneath his bags of sand

Oft jerks the string from leaders hand

And on the road will eager stoop

To pick the sprouting thistle up

Oft answering on his weary way

Some distant neighbours sobbing bray

Dining the ears of driving boy

As if he felt a fit of joy

Wi in its pinfold circle left

Of all its company bereft

Starvd stock no longer noising round

Lone in the nooks of foddering ground

Each skeleton of lingering stack

By winters tempests beaten black

Nodds upon props or bolt upright

Stands swarthy in the summer light

And oer the green grass seems to lower

Like stump of old time wasted tower

All that in winter lookd for hay

Spread from their batterd haunts away

To pick the grass or lye at lare

Beneath the mild hedge shadows there

Sweet month that gives a welcome call

To toil and nature and to all

Yet one day mid thy many joys

Is dead to all its sport and noise

Old may day where's thy glorys gone

All fled and left thee every one

Thou comst to thy old haunts and homes

Unnoticd as a stranger comes

No flowers are pluckt to hail the now

Nor cotter seeks a single bough

The maids no more on thy sweet morn

Awake their thresholds to adorn

Wi dewey flowers-May locks new come

And princifeathers cluttering bloom

And blue bells from the woodland moss

And cowslip cucking balls to toss

Above the garlands swinging hight

Hang in the soft eves sober light

These maid and child did yearly pull

By many a folded apron full

But all is past the merry song

Of maidens hurrying along

To crown at eve the earliest cow

Is gone and dead and silent now

The laugh raisd at the mocking thorn

Tyd to the cows tail last that morn

The kerchief at arms length displayd

Held up by pairs of swain and maid

While others bolted underneath

Bawling loud wi panting breath

'Duck under water' as they ran

Alls ended as they ne'er began

While the new thing that took thy place

Wears faded smiles upon its face

And where enclosure has its birth

It spreads a mildew oer her mirth

The herd no longer one by one

Goes plodding on her morning way

And garlands lost and sports nigh gone

Leaves her like thee a common day

Yet summer smiles upon thee still

Wi natures sweet unalterd will

And at thy births unworshipd hours

Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers

To crown thee still as thou hast been

Of spring and summer months the queen.

John Clare

Story.

Spenser, January from "The Shepherd's Calendar," 1597

The SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR: JANUARY

WINTER'S DAY

Withering and keen the winter comes

While comfort flyes to close shut rooms

And sees the snow in feathers pass

Winnowing by the window glass

And unfelt tempests howl and beat

Above his head in corner seat

And musing oer the changing scene

Farmers behind the tavern screen

Sit-or wi elbow idly prest

On hob reclines the corners guest

Reading the news to mark again

The bankrupt lists or price of grain

Or old moores anual prophecys

That many a theme for talk supplys

Whose almanacks thumbd pages swarm

Wi frost and snow and many a storm

And wisdom gossipd from the stars

Of polities and bloody wars

He shakes his head and still proceeds

Neer doubting once of what he reads

All wonders are wi faith supplyd

Bible at once and weather guide

Puffing the while his red tipt pipe

Dreaming oer troubles nearly ripe

Yet not quite lost in profits way

He'll turn to next years harvest day

And winters leisure to regale

Hopes better times and sips his ale

While labour still pursues his way

And braves the tempest as he may

The thresher first thro darkness deep

Awakes the mornings winter sleep

Scaring the owlet from her prey

Long before she dreams of day

That blinks above head on the snow

Watching the mice that squeaks below

And foddering boys sojourn again

By ryhme hung hedge and frozen plain

Shuffling thro the sinking snows

Blowing his fingers as he goes

To where the stock in bellowings hoarse

Call for their meals in dreary close

And print full many a hungry track

Round circling hedge that guards the stack

Wi higgling tug he cuts the hay

And bares the forkfull loads away

And morn and evening daily throws

The little heaps upon the snows

The shepherd too in great coat wrapt

And straw bands round his stockings lapt

Wi plodding dog that sheltering steals

To shun the wind behind his heels

Takes rough and smooth the winter weather

And paces thro the snow together

While in the fields the lonly plough

Enjoys its frozen sabbath now

And horses too pass time away

In leisures hungry holiday

Rubbing and lunging round the yard

Dreaming no doubt of summer sward

As near wi idle pace they draw

To brouze the upheapd cribs of straw

While whining hogs wi hungry roar

Crowd around the kitchen door

Or when their scanty meal is done

Creep in the straw the cold to shun

And old hens scratting all the day

Seeks curnels chance may throw away

Pausing to pick the seed and grain

Then dusting up the chaff again

While in the barn holes hid from view

The cats their patient watch pursue

For birds which want in flocks will draw

From woods and fields to pick the straw

The soodling boy that saunters round

The yard on homward dutys bound

Now fills the troughs for noisy hogs

Oft asking aid from barking dogs

That tuggles at each flopping ear

Of such as scramble on too near

Or circld round wi thirsty stock

That for his swinging labours flock

At clanking pump his station takes

Half hid in mist their breathing makes

Or at the pond before the door

Which every night leaves frozen oer

Wi heavy beetle1 splinters round

The glossy ice wi jarring sound

While huddling geese as half asleep

Doth round the imprisond water creep

Silent and sad to wait his aid

And soon as ere a hole is made

They din his ears wi pleasures cry

And hiss at all that ventures nigh

Splashing wi jealous joys & vain

Their fill ere it be froze again

And woodstack climbs at maids desire

Throwing down faggots for the fire

Where stealing time he often stands

To warm his half froze tingling hands

The schoolboy still in dithering joys

Pastime in leisure hours employs

And be the weather as it may

Is never at a loss for play

Rolling up giant heaps of snow

As noontide frets its little thaw

Making rude things of various names

Snow men or aught their fancy frames

Till numbd wi cold they quake away

And join at hotter sports to play

Kicking wi many a flying bound

The football oer the frozen ground

Or seeking bright glib ice to play

To sailing slide the hours away

As smooth and quick as shadows run

When clouds in autumn pass the sun

Some hurrying rambles eager take

To skait upon the meadow lake

Scaring the snipe from her retreat

From shelving banks unfrozen seat

Or running brook where icy spars

Which the pale sunlight specks wi stars

Shoots crizzling oer the restless tide

To many a likness petrified

Where fancy often stoops to pore

And turns again to wonder more

The more hen too wi fear opprest

Starts from her reedy shelterd nest

Bustling to get from foes away

And scarcly flies more fast then they

Skaiting along wi curving springs

Wi arms spread out like herons wings

They race away for pleasures sake

A hunters speed along the lake

And oft neath trees where ice is thin

Meet narrow scapes from breaking in

Again the robin waxes tame

And ventures pitys crumbs to claim

Picking the trifles off the snow

Which dames on purpose daily throw

And perching on the window sill

Where memory recolecting still

Knows the last winters broken pane

And there he hops and peeps again

The clouds of starnels dailey fly

Blackening thro the evening sky

To whittleseas1 reed wooded mere

And ozier holts by rivers near

And many a mingld swathy crowd

Rook crow and jackdaw noising loud

Fly too and fro to dreary fen

Dull winters weary flight agen

Flopping on heavy wings away

As soon as morning wakens grey

And when the sun sets round and red

Returns to naked woods to bed

Wood pigeons too in flocks appear

By hunger tamd from timid fear

They mid the sheep unstartld steal

And share wi them a scanty meal

Picking the green leaves want bestows

Of turnips sprouting thro the snows

The ickles from the cottage eaves

Which cold nights freakish labour leaves

Fret in the sun a partial thaw

Pattring on the pitted snow

But soon as ere hes out of sight

They eke afresh their tails at night

The sun soon creepeth out of sight

Behind the woods-and running night

Makes haste to shut the days dull eye

And grizzles oer the chilly sky

Dark deep and thick by day forsook

As cottage chimneys sooty nook

While maidens fresh as summer roses

Joining from the distant closes

Haste home wi yokes and swinging pail

And thresher too sets by his flail

And leaves the mice at peace agen

To fill their holes wi stolen grain

And owlets glad his toils are oer

Swoops by him as he shuts the door

The shepherd seeks his cottage warm

And tucks his hook beneath his arm

And weary in the cold to roam

Scenting the track that leadeth home

His dog wi swifter pace proceeds

And barks to urge his masters speed

Then turns and looks him in the face

And trotts before Wi mending pace

Till out of whistle from the swain

He sits him down and barks again

Anxious to greet the opend door

And meet the cottage fire once more

The robin that wi nimble eye

Glegs round a danger to espy

Now pops from out the opend door

From crumbs half left upon the floor

Nor wipes his bill on perching chair

Nor stays to clean a feather there

Scard at the cat that sliveth in

A chance from evenings glooms to win

To jump on chairs or tables nigh

Seeking what plunder may supply

The childerns litterd scraps to thieve

Or aught that negligence may leave

Creeping when huswives cease to watch

Or dairey doors are off the latch

On cheese or butter to regale

Or new milk reeking in .the pale

The hedger now in leathern coat

From woodland wilds and fields remote

After a journey far and slow

Knocks from his shoes the caking snow

And opes the welcome creaking door

Throwing his faggot on the floor

And at his listening wifes desire

To eke afresh the blazing fire

Wi sharp bill cuts the hazel bands

Then sets him down to warm his hands

And tell in labours happy way

His story of the passing day

While as the warm blaze cracks and gleams

The supper reeks in savoury steams

Or keetle simmers merrily

And tinkling cups are set for tea

Thus doth the winters dreary day

From morn to evening wear away.

John Clare

Hum.

Spenser, A Shepherd's Calendar: July, 1579

JULY

Loud is the Summer's busy song,

The smallest breeze can find a tongue,

While insects of each tiny size

Grow teasing with their melodies,

Till noon burns with its blistering breath

Around, and day lies still as death

The busy noise of man and brute

Is on a sudden lost and mute;

Even the brook that leaps along,

Seems weary of its bubbling song,

And, so soft its waters creep,

Tired silence sinks in sounder sleep;

The cricket on its bank is dumb;

The very flies forget to hum;

And, save the wagon rocking round,

The landscape sleeps without a sound.

The breeze is stopped, the lazy bough

Hath not a leaf that danceth now;

The taller grass upon the hill,

And spider's threads, are standing still;

The feathers, dropped from moorhen's wing

Which to the water's surface cling,

Are steadfast, and as heavy seem

As stones beneath them in the stream;

Hawkweed and groundsel's fanny downs

Unruffled keep their seedy crowns;

And in the over-heated air

Not one light thing is floating there,

Save that to the earnest eye

The restless heat seems twittering by.

Noon swoons beneath the heat it made,

And flowers e'en within the shade;

Until the sun slopes in the west,

Like weary traveler, glad to rest

On pillowed clouds of many hues.

Then Nature's voice its joy renews,

And chequered field and grassy plain

Hum with their summer songs again,

A requiem to the day's decline,

Whose setting sunbeams coolly shine;

As welcome to day's feeble powers

As falling dews to thirsty flowers.

John Clare

Birth.

Spenser, The Shepherd's Calendar, 1579

THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR: APRIL

I

Now infant April joins the Spring,

And views the watery sky,

As youngling linnet tries its wing,

And fears at first to fly;

With timid step she ventures on,

And hardly dares to smile,

Till blossoms open one by one,

And sunny hours beguile.

II

But finer days are coming yet,

With scenes more sweet to charm,

And suns arrive that rise and set

Bright strangers to a storm:

Then, as the birds with louder song

Each morning's glory cheer,

With bolder step she speeds along,

And loses all her fear.

III

In wanton gambols, like a child,

She tends her early toils,

And seeks the buds along the wild,

That blossoms while she smiles;

Or, laughing on, with nought to chide,

She races with the Hours,

Or sports by Nature's lovely side,

And fills her lap with flowers.

IV

The shepherd on his pasture walks

The first fair cowslip finds,

Whose tufted flowers, on slender stalks,

Keep nodding to the winds.

And though the thorns withhold the May,

Their shades the violets bring,

Which children stoop for in their play

As tokens of the Spring.

V

Those joys which childhood calls its own,

Would they were kin to men!

Those treasures to the world unknown,

When known, are wither'd then!

But hovering round our growing years,

To gild Care's sable shroud,

Their spirit through the gloom appears

As suns behind a cloud.

VI

Since thou didst meet my infant eyes,

As through the fields I flew,

Whose distance, where they meet the skies,

Was all the world I knew;

That warmth of Fancy's wildest hours,

Which fill'd all things with life,

Which heard a voice in trees and flowers,

Has swoon'd in Reason's strife.

VII

Sweet Month! thy pleasures bid thee be

The fairest child of Spring;

And every hour, that comes with thee,

Comes some new joy to bring:

The trees still deepen in their bloom,

Grass greens the meadow-lands,

And flowers with every morning come,

As dropt by fairy hands.

VIII

The field and garden's lovely hours

Begin and end with thee;

For what's so sweet, as peeping flowers

And bursting buds to see,

What time the dew's unsullied drops,

In burnish'd gold, distil

On crocus flowers' unclosing tops,

And drooping daffodil?

IX

To see thee come, all hearts rejoice;

And, warm with feelings strong,

With thee all Nature finds a voice,

And hums a waking song.

The lover views thy welcome hours,

And thinks of summer come,

And takes the maid thy early flowers,

To tempt her steps from home.

X

Along each hedge and sprouting bush

The singing birds are blest,

And linnet green and speckled thrush

Prepare their mossy nest;

On the warm bed thy plains supply,

The young lambs find repose,

And 'mid thy green hills basking lie

Like spots of ling'ring snows.

XI

Thy open'd leaves and ripen'd buds

The cuckoo makes his choice,

And shepherds in thy greening woods

First hear his cheering voice:

And to thy ripen'd blooming bowers

The nightingale belongs;

And, singing to thy parting hours,

Keeps night awake with songs!

XII

With thee the swallow dares to come,

And cool his sultry wing;

And, urged to seek his yearly home,

Thy suns the martin bring.

O! lovely Month! be leisure mine

Thy yearly mate to be;

Though May-day scenes may brighter shine,

Their birth belongs to thee.

XIII

I waked me with thy rising sun,

And thy first glories viewed,

And, as thy welcome hours begun,

Their sunny steps pursued.

And now thy sun is on thee set,

Like to a lovely eve,

I view thy parting with regret,

And linger loath to leave. —

XIV

Though at her birth the northern gale

Come with its withering sigh;

And hopeful blossoms, turning pale,

Upon her bosom die;

Ere April seeks another place,

And ends her reign in this,

She leaves us with as fair a face

As e'er gave birth to bliss!

Dream.

Crane, The Shepherd's Calendar: February, 1898

THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR: FEBRUARY

The snow has left the cottage top;

The thatch moss grows in brighter green;

And eaves in quick succession drop,

Where grinning icicles have been,

Pit-patting with a pleasant noise

In tubs set by the cottage-door;

While ducks and geese, with happy joys,

Plunge in the yard-pond brimming o'er.

The sun peeps through the window-pane;

Which children mark with laughing eye,

And in the wet street steal again

To tell each other spring is nigh:

Then, as young hope the past recalls,

In playing groups they often draw,

To build beside the sunny walls

Their spring-time huts of sticks or straw.

And oft in pleasure's dreams they hie

Round homesteads by the village side,

Scratching the hedgerow mosses by,

Where painted pooty shells abide,

Mistaking oft the ivy spray

For leaves that come with budding spring,

And wondering, in their search for play,

Why birds delay to build and sing.

The milkmaid singing leaves her bed,

As glad as happy thoughts can be,

While magpies chatter o'er her head

As jocund in the change as she:

Her cows around the closes stray,

Nor lingering wait the foddering-boy,

Tossing the molehills in their play,

And staring round with frolic joy.

The shepherd now is often seen

Near warm banks o'er his hook to bend,

Or o'er a gate or stile to lean,

Chattering to a passing friend:

Ploughmen go whistling to their toils,

And yoke again the rested plough;

And, mingling o'er the mellow soils,

Boys shout, and whips are noising now.

The barking dogs, by lane and wood,

Drive sheep afield from foddering ground;

And Echo, in her summer mood,

Briskly mocks the cheering sound.

The flocks, as from a prison broke,

Shake their wet fleeces in the sun,

While, following fast, a misty smoke

Reeks from the moist grass as they run.

No more behind his master's heels

The dog creeps on his winter-pace;

But cocks his tail, and o'er the fields

Runs many a wild and random chase,

Following, in spite of chiding calls,

The startled cat with harmless glee,

Scaring her up the weed-green walls,

Or mossy mottled apple-tree.

As crows from morning perches fly,

He barks and follows them in vain;

E'en larks will catch his nimble eye,

And off he starts and barks again,

With breathless haste and blinded guess,

Oft following where the hare hath gone,

Forgetting, in his joy's excess,

His frolic puppy-days are done.

The hedgehog, from his hollow root,

Sees the wood-moss clear of snow,

And hunts the hedge for fallen fruit--

Crab, hip, and winter-bitten sloe;

But often checked by sudden fears,

As shepherd-dog his haunt espies,

He rolls up in a ball of spears,

And all his barking rage defies.

The gladdened swine bolt from the sty,

And round the yard in freedom run,

Or stretching in their slumbers lie

Beside the cottage in the sun.

The young horse whinnies to his mate,

And, sickening from the thresher's door,

Rubs at the straw-yard's banded gate,

Longing for freedom on the moor.

The small birds think their wants are o'er,

To see the snow-hills fret again,

And, from the barn's chaff-littered door,

Betake them to the greening plain.

The woodman's robin startles coy,

Nor longer to his elbow comes,

To peck, with hunger's eager joy,

'Mong mossy stulps the littered crumbs.

'Neath hedge and walls that screen the wind,

The gnats for play will flock together;

And e'en poor flies some hope will find

To venture in the mocking weather;

From out their hiding-holes again,

With feeble pace, they often creep

Along the sun-warmed window-pane,

Like dreaming things that walk in sleep.

The mavis thrush with wild delight,

Upon the orchard's dripping tree,

Mutters, to see the day so bright,

Fragments of young Hope's poesy:

And oft Dame stops her buzzing wheel

To hear the robin's note once more,

Who tootles while he pecks his meal

From sweetbrier hips beside the door.

The sunbeams on the hedges lie,

The south wind murmurs summer-soft;

The maids hang out white clothes to dry

Around the elder-skirted croft:

A calm of pleasure listens round,

And almost whispers winter by;

While Fancy dreams of summer's sound,

And quiet rapture fills the eye.

Thus Nature of the spring will dream

While south winds thaw; but soon again

Frost breathes upon the stiffening stream,

And numbs it into ice: the plain

Soon wears its mourning garb of white;

And icicles, that fret at noon,

Will eke their icy tails at night

Beneath the chilly stars and moon.

Nature soon sickens of her joys,

And all is sad and dumb again.

Save merry shouts of sliding boys

About the frozen furrowed plain.

The foddering-boy forgets his song,

And silent goes with folded arms;

And croodling shepherds bend along,

Crouching to the whizzing storms.

John Clare

Delight.

Spenser, September in The Shepheardes Calender (detail), 1579

The SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR: SEPTEMBER

Harvest awakes the morning still,

And toil's rude groups the valleys fill;

Deserted is each cottage hearth

To all life, save the cricket's mirth;

Each burring wheel its sabbath meets,

Nor walks a gossip in the streets;

The bench beneath the eldern bough,

Lined o'er with grass, is empty now,

Where blackbirds, caged from out the sun,

Would whistle while their mistress spun:

All haunt the thronged fields, to share

The harvest's lingering bounty there.

As yet, no meddling boys resort

About the streets in idle sport;

The butterfly enjoys its hour,

And flirts, unchased, from flower to flower;

The humming bees, which morning calls

From out the low hut's mortar walls,

And passing boy no more controls —

Fly undisturb'd about their holes;

The sparrows in glad chirpings meet,

Unpelted in the quiet street.

None but imprison'd children now

Are seen, where dames with angry brow

Threaten each younker to his seat,

Who, through the window, eyes the street;

Or from his hornbook turns away,

To mourn for liberty and play.

Yet loud are morning's early sounds;

The farm or cottage yard abounds

With creaking noise of opening gate,

And clanking pumps, where boys await

With idle motion, to supply

The thirst of cattle crowding nigh.

Upon the dovecote's mossy slates,

The pigeons coo around their mates;

And close beside the stable wall,

Where morning sunbeams earliest fall,

The basking hen, in playful rout,

Flaps the powdery dust about.

Within the barn-hole sits the cat

Watching to seize the thirsty rat,

Who oft at morn its dwelling leaves

To drink the moisture from the eaves;

The red-breast, with his nimble eye,

Dares scarcely stop to catch the fly,

That, tangled in the spider's snare,

Mourns in vain for freedom there.

The dog beside the threshold lies,

Mocking sleep, with half-shut eyes —

With head crouch'd 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 in startled speed along;

And beggar, creeping like a snail,

To make his hungry hopes prevail

O'er the warm heart of charity,

Leaves his lame halt and hastens by.

The maid afield now leaves the farm,

With dinner basket on her arm,

Loitering unseen in narrow lane,

To be o'ertook by following swain,

Who, happy thus her truth to prove,

Carries the load and talks of love.

Soon as the dew is off the ground,

Rumbling like distant thunder round,

The waggons haste the corn to load,

And hurry down the dusty road;

While driving boy with eager eye

Watches the church clock passing by —

Whose gilt hands glitter in the sun —

To see how far the hours have run;

Right happy, in the breathless day,

To see time wearing fast away.

But now and then a sudden shower

Will bring to toil a resting hour;

Then, under sheltering shocks, a crowd

Of merry voices mingle loud,

Draining, with leisure's laughing eye,

Each welcome, bubbling bottle dry;

Till peeping suns dry up the rain,

Then off they start to toil again.

Anon the fields are getting clear,

And glad sounds hum in labour's ear;

When children halloo " Here they come! "

And run to meet the Harvest Home,

Cover'd with boughs, and throng'd with boys,

Who mingle loud a merry noise,

And, when they meet the stack-throng'd yard,

Cross-buns and 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 harvest's happy close;

While Mirth, that at the scene abides,

Laughs, till she almost cracks her sides.

Now harvest's busy hum declines,

And labour half its help resigns.

Boys, glad at heart, to play return;

The shepherds to their peace sojourn,

Rush-bosom'd solitudes among,

Which busy toil disturb'd so long.

The gossip, happy all is o'er,

Visits again her neighbour's door,

On scandal's idle tales to dwell,

Which harvest had no time to tell;

And free from all its sultry strife,

Enjoys once more her idle life.

A few, whom waning toil reprieves,

Thread the forest's sea of leaves,

Where the pheasant loves to hide,

And the darkest glooms abide,

Beneath the old oaks moss'd 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 Autumn's shadows idly muse

And tinge the trees in many hues:

Amid whose scenes I'm fain 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,

Unheard a song so mean as mine.

John Clare

Home-Tranquillity.

Spenser, The Shepheard's Calendar: August, 1579

The SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR: AUGUST

Harvest approaches with its busy day;

The wheat tans brown, and barley bleaches grey;

In yellow garb the oatland intervenes,

And tawny glooms the valley throng'd with beans.

Silent the village grows, — wood-wandering dreams

Seem not so lonely as its quiet seems;

Doors are shut up as on a winter's day,

And not a child about them lies at play;

The dust that winnows 'neath the breeze's feet

Is all that stirs about the silent street:

Fancy might think that desert-spreading Fear

Had whisper'd terrors into Quiet's ear,

Or plundering armies 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 reapers leave their rest before the sun,

And gleaners follow in the toils begun

To pick the litter'd ear the reaper leaves,

And glean in open fields among the sheaves.

The ruddy child, nursed in the lap of Care,

In Toil's rude strife to do its little share,

Beside its mother poddles o'er the land,

Sunburnt, and stooping with a weary hand,

Picking its tiny glean of corn or wheat,

While crackling stubbles wound its little feet.

Full glad it often is to sit awhile

Upon a smooth green bank to ease its toil,

And fain would spend an idle hour in play

With insects, strangers to the moiling day,

Creeping about each rush and grassy stem,

And often wishes it were one of them:

Meanwhile the expecting mother stops to tie

Her handful up, and, waiting his supply,

Misses the idle younker from her side;

Then shouts of rods, and morts of threats beside

Picture harsh truths in his unpractised breast, —

How they, who idle in the harvest rest,

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 scatch'd 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 mourn no more,

For by and by, on the next Sabbath-day,

He shall have well-earn'd pence as well as play,

When he may buy, almost without a stint,

Sweet candied horehound, cakes, and peppermint,

At the gay shop, within whose window lie

Things of all sorts to tempt his eager eye:

Rich sugar-plums in phials shining bright,

In every hue, young fancies to delight;

Coaches and ladies of gilt gingerbread;

And downy plums, and apples streak'd with red.

Such promises all sorrow soon displace,

And smiles are instant kindled in his face;

Scorning the troubles which he felt before,

He picks the trailing ears, and mourns no more.

The fields are all alive with sultry noise

Of labour's sounds, and insects' busy joys.

The reapers o'er their glittering sickles stoop,

Startling full oft the partridge coveys up;

Some o'er the rustling scythe go bending on;

And shockers follow where their toils have gone,

Heaping the swaths that rustle in the sun,

Where mice from Terror's dangers nimbly run,

Leaving their tender young in fear's alarm,

Lapt up in nests of chimbled grasses warm,

Hoping for safety from their flight in vain;

While the rude boy, or churlish-hearted swain,

Pursues with lifted weapons o'er the ground,

And spreads an instant murder all around.

In vain the anxious maiden's tender prayer

Urges the clown their little lives to spare;

She sighs, while trailing the long rake along,

At scenes so cruel, and forgets her song.

When the Sun stoops to meet the western sky,

And Noon's hot hours have wander'd weary by,

Seeking a hawthorn bush or willow-tree

For resting-places that the coolest be,

Where baskets heaped and unbroached bottles lie,

Which dogs in absence watch'd with wary eye,

They catch their breath awhile, and share the boon

Which bevering-time allows their toil at noon.

Next to her favour'd swain the maiden steals,

Blushing at kindness which his love reveals;

Making a seat for her of sheaves around,

He drops beside her on the naked ground.

Then from its cool retreat the beer they bring,

And hand the stout-hoop'd bottle round the ring.

Each swain soaks hard; the maiden, ere she sips,

Shrieks at the bold wasp settling on her lips,

That seems determined only her's to greet,

As if it fancied they were cherries sweet!

The dog foregoes his sleep awhile, or play,

Springing at frogs that rustling jump away,

To watch each morsel carelessness bestows,

Or wait the bone or crust the shepherd throws;

For shepherds are no more of ease possest,

But share in harvest-labours with the rest.

When day declines and others meet repose,

The bawling boy his evening journey goes;

At toil's unwearied call the first and last,

He drives his horses to their night's repast,

In dewy close or meadow to sojourn;

And often ventures, on his still return,

O'er garden pales, or orchard walls, to hie,

When sleep's safe key hath lock'd up danger's eye,

All but the mastiff watching in the dark,

Who snuffs and knows him, and forbears to bark.

With fearful haste he climbs each loaded tree,

And picks for prizes, that the ripest be;

While the pale moon, creeping with jealous light,

Fills empty shadows with the power to fright;

And, from the barn-hole, pops and hurries by,

The grey owl, screaming with a fearful cry; —

He hears the noise, and, hastening to escape,

Thinks each thing grows around a dismal shape.

Quick tumbling o'er the mossy, mould'ring wall,

He loses half his booty in the fall;

Where, soon as ever Morning opes its eyes,

The restless hogs will happen on the prize,

And crump adown the mellow and the green,

Making all seem as nothing e'er had been.

Amid the broils of harvest's weary reign,

How sweet the Sabbath wakes its rest again!

And on each weary mind what rapture dwells,

To hear once more the pleasant chiming bells,

That from each steeple, peeping here and there,

Murmur a soothing lullaby to care.

The shepherd, journeying on his morning rounds,

Pauses awhile to hear the pleasing sounds,

While the glad children, free from toil's employ,

Mimic the " ding dong " hums, and laugh for joy.

The fields themselves seem happy to be free,

Where insects chatter with unusual glee;

While Solitude, the grass and stubs among,

Appears to muse and listen to the song.

In quiet peace awakes the welcome morn;

Men tired, and children with their gleaning worn,

Weary and stiff, lie round the doors all day,

To rest themselves, with little heart for play.

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 plum and luscious pear

That melts i' th' mouth, which gardeners never fail,

For gain's strong impulse, to expose for sale;

Placed on the circling Cross-steps in the sun,

What time the parson has his sermon done.

There, soon the boy his sore-earn'd penny spends;

And he the while, that pennyless attends,

In sullen, silent mood, approaching nigh,

Full often drops a keen, desiring eye,

Upon each loaded basket, to perceive,

What makes his little fingers itch to thieve; —

But, close at hand, the stocks in terror shine,

And temptings strong, to stronger fears resign.

Thus Sunday's leisure passes swiftly by

In rest, soft peace, and home-tranquillity,

Till Monday morning doth its cares pursue,

Rousing the harvest's busy toils anew.

John Clare

Hum.

Spenser, June, 1579

THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR: JUNE

Now summer is in flower and natures hum

Is never silent round her sultry bloom

Insects as small as dust are never done

Wi' glittering dance and reeling in the sun

And green wood fly and blossom haunting bee

Are never weary of their melody

Round field hedge now flowers in full glory twine

Large bindweed bells wild hop and streakd woodbine

That lift athirst their slender throated flowers

Agape for dew falls and for honey showers

These round each bush in sweet disorder run

And spread their wild hues to the sultry sun

Where its silk netting lace on twigs and leaves

The mottld spider at eves leisure weaves

That every morning meet the poets eye

Like faireys dew wet dresses hung to dry

The wheat swells into ear and leaves below

The may month wild flowers and their gaudy show

Bright carlock bluecap and corn poppy red

Which in such clouds of colors wid [e] ly spread

That at the sun rise might to fancys eye

Seem to reflect the many colord sky

And leverets seat and lark and partridge nest

It leaves a schoolboys height in snugger rest

And oer the weeders labour overgrows

Who now in merry groups each morning goes

To willow skirted meads wi fork and rake

The scented hay cocks in long rows to make

Where their old visitors in russet brown

The haytime butterflyes dance up and down

And gads that teaze like whasps the timid maid

And drive the herdboys cows to pond and shade

Who when his dogs assistance fails to stop

Is forcd his half made oaten pipes to drop

And start and hallo thro the dancing heat

To keep their gadding tumult from the wheat

Who in their rage will dangers overlook

And leap like hunters oer the pasture brook

Brushing thro blossomd beans in maddening haste

And 'stroying corn they scarce can stop to taste

Labour pursues its toil in weary mood

And feign woud rest wi shadows in the wood

The mowing gangs bend oer the beeded grass

Where oft the gipseys hungry journeying ass

Will turn its wishes from the meadow paths

Listning the rustle of the falling swaths

The ploughman sweats along the fallow vales

And down the suncrackt furrow slowly trails

Oft seeking when athirst the brooks supply

Where brushing eager the brinks bushes bye

For coolest water he oft brakes the rest

Of ring dove brooding oer its idle nest

And there as loath to leave the swaily place

He'll stand to breath and whipe his burning face

The shepherds idle hours are over now

Nor longer leaves him neath the hedgrow bough

On shadow pillowd banks and lolling stile

Wilds looses now their summer friends awhile

Shrill whistles barking dogs and chiding scold

Drive bleating sheep each morn from fallow fold

To wash pits where the willow shadows lean

Dashing them in their fold staind coats to clean

Then turnd on sunning sward to dry agen

They drove them homeward to the clipping pen

In hurdles pent where elm or sycamore

Shut out the sun-or in some threshing floor

There they wi scraps of songs and laugh and tale

Lighten their anual toils while merry ale

Goes round and gladdens old mens hearts to praise

The thread bare customs of old farmers days

Who while the sturting sheep wi trembling fears

Lies neath the snipping of his harmless sheers

Recalls full many a thing by bards unsung

And pride forgot-that reignd when he was young

How the hugh bowl was in the middle set

At breakfast time as clippers yearly met

Filld full of frumity where yearly swum

The streaking sugar and the spotting plumb

Which maids coud never to the table bring

Without one rising from the merry ring

To lend a hand who if twas taen amiss

Woud sell his kindness for a stolen kiss

The large stone pitcher in its homly trim

And clouded pint horn wi its copper rim

Oer which rude healths was drank in spirits high

From the best broach the cellar woud supply

While sung the ancient swains in homly ryhmes

Songs that were pictures of the good old times

When leathern bottles held the beer nut brown

That wakd the sun wi songs and sung him down

Thus will the old man ancient ways bewail

Till toiling sheers gain ground upon the tale

And brakes it off-when from the timid sheep

The fleece is shorn and wi a fearfull leap

He starts-while wi a pressing hand

His sides are printed by the tarry brand

Shaking his naked skin wi wondering joys

And fresh ones are tugd in by sturdy boys

Who when theyre thrown down neath the sheering swain

Will wipe his brow and start his tale again

Tho fashions haughtv frown hath thrown aside

Half the old forms simplicity supplyd

Yet their are some prides winter deigns to spare

Left like green ivy when the trees are bare

And now when sheering of the flocks are done

Some ancient customs mixd wi harmless fun

Crowns the swains merry toils-the timid maid

Pleasd to be praisd and yet of praise affraid

Seeks her best flowers not those of woods and fields

But such as every farmers garden yield

Fine cabbage roses painted like her face

And shining pansys trimmd in golden lace

And tall tuft larkheels featherd thick wi flowers

And woodbines climbing oer the door in bowers

And London tufts of many a mottld hue

And pale pink pea and monkshood darkly blue

And white and purple jiliflowers that stay

Lingering in blossom summer half away

And single blood walls of a lucious smell

Old fashiond flowers which huswives love so well

And columbines stone blue or deep night brown

Their honey-comb-like blossoms hanging down

Each cottage gardens fond adopted child

Tho heaths still claim them where they yet grow wild

Mong their old wild companions summer blooms

Furze brake and mozzling ling and golden broom

Snap dragons gaping like to sleeping clowns

And 'clipping pinks' (which maidens sunday gowns

Full often wear catcht at by tozing chaps)

Pink as the ribbons round their snowy caps

'Bess in her bravery' too of glowing dyes

As deep as sunsets crimson pillowd skyes

And majoram notts sweet briar and ribbon grass

And lavender the choice of every lass

And sprigs of lads love all familiar names

Which every garden thro the village claims

These the maid gathers wi a coy delight

And tyes them up in readiness for night

Giving to every swain tween love and shame

Her 'clipping poseys' as their yearly claim

And turning as he claims the custom kiss

Wi stifld smiles half ankering after bliss

She shrinks away and blushing calls it rude

But turns to smile and hopes to be pursued

While one to whom the seeming hint applied

Follows to claim it and is not denyd

No doubt a lover for within his coat

His nosegay owns each flower of better sort

And when the envious mutter oer their beer

And nodd the secret to his neighbor near

Raising the laugh to make the mutter known

She blushes silent and will not disown

And ale and songs and healths and merry ways

Keeps up a shadow of old farmers days

But the old beachen bowl that once supplyd

Its feast of frumity is thrown aside

And the old freedom that was living then

When masters made them merry wi' their men

Whose coat was like his neighbors russet brown

And whose rude speech was vulgar as his clown

Who in the same horn drank the rest among

And joind the chorus while a labourer sung

All this is past-and soon may pass away

The time torn remnant of the holiday

As proud distinction makes a wider space

Between the genteel and the vulgar race

Then must they fade as pride o'er custom showers

Its blighting mildew on her feeble flowers

John Clare

Wild.

Spenser, The Shepherd's Calendar: March, 1898

THE SHEPHERD'S CALENDAR: MARCH

March month of 'many weathers' wildly comes

In hail and snow and rain and threatning hums

And floods: while often at his cottage door

The shepherd stands to hear the distant roar

Loosd from the rushing mills and river locks

Wi thundering sound and over powering shocks

And headlong hurry thro the meadow brigs

Brushing the leaning sallows fingering twigs

In feathery foam and eddy hissing chase

Rolling a storm oertaken travellers pace

From bank to bank along the meadow leas

Spreading and shining like to little seas

While in the pale sunlight a watery brood

Of swopping white birds flock about the flood

Yet winter seems half weary of its toil

And round the ploughman on the elting soil

Will thread a minutes sunshine wild and warm

Thro the raggd places of the swimming storm

And oft the shepherd in his path will spye

The little daisey in the wet grass lye

That to the peeping sun enlivens gay

Like Labour smiling on an holiday

And where the stunt bank fronts the southern sky

By lanes or brooks where sunbeams love to lye

A cowslip peep will open faintly coy

Soon seen and gatherd by a wandering boy

A tale of spring around the distant haze

Seems muttering pleasures wi the lengthening days

Morn wakens mottld oft wi may day stains

And shower drops hang the grassy sprouting plains

And on the naked thorns of brassy hue

Drip glistning like a summer dream of dew

While from the hill side freshing forest drops

As one might walk upon their thickening tops

And buds wi young hopes promise seemly swells

Where woodman that in wild seclusion dwells

Wi chopping toil the coming spring decieves

Of many dancing shadows flowers and leaves

And in his pathway down the mossy wood

Crushes wi hasty feet full many a bud

Of early primrose yet if timely spied

Shelterd some old half rotten stump beside

The sight will cheer his solitery hour

And urge his feet to stride and save the flower

Muffld in baffles leathern coat and gloves

The hedger toils oft scaring rustling doves

From out the hedgrows who in hunger browze

The chockolate berrys on the ivy boughs

And flocking field fares speckld like the thrush

Picking the red awe from the sweeing bush

That come and go on winters chilling wing

And seem to share no sympathy wi spring

The stooping ditcher in the water stands

Letting the furrowd lakes from off the lands

Or splashing cleans the pasture brooks of mud

Where many a wild weed freshens into bud

And sprouting from the bottom purply green

The water cresses neath the wave is seen

Which the old woman gladly drags to land

Wi reaching long rake in her tottering hand

The ploughman mawls along the doughy sloughs

And often stop their songs to clean their ploughs

From teazing twitch that in the spongy soil

Clings round the colter terryfying toil

The sower striding oer his dirty way

Sinks anckle deep in pudgy sloughs and clay

And oer his heavy hopper stoutly leans

Strewing wi swinging arms the pattering beans

Which soon as aprils milder weather gleams

Will shoot up green between the furroed seams

The driving boy glad when his steps can trace

The swelling edding as a resting place

Slings from his clotted shoes the dirt around

And feign woud rest him on the solid ground

And sings when he can meet the parting green

Of rushy balks that bend the lands between

While close behind em struts the nauntling crow

And daws whose heads seem powderd oer wi snow

To seek the worms-and rooks a noisey guest

That on the wind rockd elms prepares her nest

On the fresh furrow often drops to pull

The twitching roots and gathering sticks and wool

Neath trees whose dead twigs litter to the wind

And gaps where stray sheep left their coats behind

While ground larks on a sweeing clump of rushes

Or on the top twigs of the oddling bushes

Chirp their 'cree creeing' note that sounds of spring

And sky larks meet the sun wi flittering wing

Soon as the morning opes its brightning eye

Large clouds of sturnels blacken thro the sky

From oizer holts about the rushy fen

And reedshaw borders by the river Nen

And wild geese regiments now agen repair

To the wet bosom of broad marshes there

In marching coloms and attention all

Listning and following their ringleaders call

The shepherd boy that hastens now and then

From hail and snow beneath his sheltering den

Of flags or file leavd sedges tyd in sheaves

Or stubble shocks oft as his eye percieves

Sun threads struck out wi momentery smiles

Wi fancy thoughts his lonliness beguiles

Thinking the struggling winter hourly bye

As down the edges of the distant sky

The hailstorm sweeps-and while he stops to strip

The stooping hedgbriar of its lingering hip

He hears the wild geese gabble oer his head

And pleasd wi fancys in his musings bred

He marks the figurd forms in which they flye

And pausing follows wi a wandering eye

Likening their curious march in curves or rows

To every letter which his memory knows

While far above the solitary crane

Swings lonly to unfrozen dykes again

Cranking a jarring mellancholy cry

Thro the wild journey of the cheerless sky

Full oft at early seasons mild and fair

March bids farewell wi garlands in her hair

Of hazzel tassles woodbines hairy sprout

And sloe and wild plumb blossoms peeping out

In thickset knotts of flowers preparing gay

For aprils reign a mockery of may

That soon will glisten on the earnest eye

Like snow white cloaths hung in the sun to drye

The old dame often stills her burring wheel

When the bright sun will thro the window steal

And gleam upon her face and dancing fall

In diamond shadows on the picturd wall

While the white butterflye as in amaze

Will settle on the glossy glass to gaze

And oddling bee oft patting passing bye

As if they care to tell her spring was nigh

And smiling glad to see such things once more

Up she will get and potter to the door

And look upon the trees beneath the eves

Sweet briar and ladslove swelling into leaves

And damsin trees thick notting into bloom

And goosberry blossoms on the bushes come

And stooping down oft views her garden beds

To see the spring flowers pricking out their heads

And from her apron strings she'll often pull

Her sissars out an early bunch to cull

For flower pots on the window board to stand

Where the old hour glass spins its thread of sand

And maids will often mark wi laughing eye

In elder where they hang their cloaths to drye

The sharp eyd robin hop from grain to grain

Singing its little summer notes again

As a sweet pledge of Spring the little lambs

Bleat in the varied weather round their dams

Or hugh molehill or roman mound behind

Like spots of snow lye shelterd from the wind

While the old yoes bold wi paternal cares

Looses their fears and every danger dares

Who if the shepherds dog but turns his eye

And stops behind a moment passing bye

Will stamp draw back and then their threats repeat

Urging defiance wi their stamping feet

And stung wi cares hopes cannot recconsile

They stamp and follow till he leaps a stile

Or skulking from their threats betakes to flight

And wi the master lessens out of sight

Clowns mark the threatning rage of march pass bye

And clouds wear thin and ragged in the sky

While wi less sudden and more lasting smiles

The growing sun their hopes of spring beguiles

Who often at its end remark wi pride

Days lengthen in their visits a 'cocks stride'

Dames clean their candlesticks and set them bye

Glad of the makeshift light that eves supply

The boy returning home at night from toil

Down lane and close oer footbrig gate and style1

Oft trembles into fear and stands to hark

The waking fox renew his short gruff bark

While badgers eccho their dread evening shrieks

And to his thrilling thoughts in terror speaks

And shepherds that wi in their hulks remain

Night after night upon the chilly plain

To watch the dropping lambs that at all hours

Come in the quaking blast like early flowers

Demanding all the shepherds care who find

Warm hedge side spots and take them from the wind

And round their necks in wary caution tyes

Long shreds of rags in red or purple dyes

Thats meant in danger as a safty spell

Like the old yoe that wears a tinkling bell

The sneaking foxes from his thefts to fright

That often seizes the young lambs at night

These when they in their nightly watchings hear

The badgers shrieks can hardly stifle fear

They list the noise from woodlands dark recess

Like helpless shrieking woman in distress

And oft as such fears fancying mystery

Believes the dismal yelling sounds to be

For superstition hath its thousand tales

To people all his midnight woods and vales

And the dread spot from whence the dismal noise

Mars the night musings of their dark employs

Owns its sad tale to realize their fear

At which their hearts in boyhood achd to hear

A maid at night by treacherous love decoyd

Was in that shrieking wood years past destroyd

She went twas said to meet the waiting swain

And home and friends ne'er saw her face again

Mid brakes and thorns that crowded round the dell

And matting weeds that had no tongues to tell

He murderd her alone at dead midnight

While the pale moon threw round her sickly light

And loud shrieks left the thickets slumbers deep

That only scard the little birds from sleep

When the pale murderers terror frowning eye

Told its dread errand that the maid shoud dye

Mid thick black thorns her secret grave was made

And there ere night the murderd girl was laid

When no one saw the deed but god and he

And moonlight sparkling thro the sleeping tree

Around-the red breast might at morning steel

There for the worm to meet his morning meal

In fresh turnd moulds that first beheld the sun

Nor knew the deed that dismal night had done

Such is the tale that superstition gives

And in her midnight memory ever lives

That makes the boy run by wi wild affright

And shepherds startle on their rounds at night

Now love teazd maidens from their droning wheel

At the red hour of sunset sliving steals

From scolding dames to meet their swains agen

Tho water checks their visits oer the plain

They slive where no one sees some wall behind

Or orchard apple trees that stops the wind

To talk about springs pleasures hoveing nigh

And happy rambles when the roads get dry

The insect world now sunbeams higher climb

Oft dream of spring and wake before their time

Blue flyes from straw stacks crawling scarce alive

And bees peep out on slabs before the hive

Stroaking their little legs across their wings

And venturing short flight where the snow drop hings

Its silver bell-and winter aconite

Wi buttercup like flowers that shut at night

And green leaf frilling round their cups of gold

Like tender maiden muffld from the cold

They sip and find their honey dreams are vain

And feebly hasten to their hives again

And butterflys by eager hopes undone

Glad as a child come out to greet the sun

Lost neath the shadow of a sudden shower

Nor left to see tomorrows April flower .

John Clare