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Fall in England (not New England, for a change)

John Clare (1793-1864), the son of a farm laborer, was a fine Romantic poet known for his celebration of the English countryside.

 

Here is a timely Clare poem.

Autumn

The thistledown’s flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.

The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we’re eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

 

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About freshmoonpie

Publisher of Moon Pie Press, a poetry press based in Maine, going strong since 2003. 100 books published, including 9 anthologies. The work of our poets, who live all over the U.S., has been featured on "The Writer's Almanac" on National Public Radio - 25 times ! See full catalog and lots more information on our website at www.moonpiepress.com.

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