A Lair At Noon.

A poem by John Clare

The hawthorn gently stopt the sun, beneath,
The ash above its quiv'ring shadows spread,
And downy bents, that to the air did wreathe,
Bow'd 'neath my pressure in an easy bed;
The water whirled round each stunted nook,
And sweet the splashings on the ear did swim
Of fly-bit cattle gulshing in the brook,
Nibbling the grasses on the fountain's brim:
The little minnows, driv'n from their retreat,
Still sought the shelving bank to shun the heat.
I fain had slept, but flies would buzz around;
I fain had looked calmly on the scene,
But the sweet snug retreat my search had found
Waken'd the Muse to sing the woody screen.

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