John Clare's poems

These children of the sun which summer brings

As pastoral minstrels in her merry train

Pipe rustic ballads upon busy wings

And glad the cotter's quiet toils again

The white-nosed bee that bores its little hole

In mortared walls and pipes its symphonies

And never-absent cousin black as cole

That Indian-like bepaints its little thights

With white and red bedight for holiday

Right earlily a morn do pipe and play

And with their legs stroke slumber from their eyes

And aye so fond they of their singing seem

That in their holes abed at close of day

They still keep piping in their honey dreams

And larger ones that thrum on ruder pipe

Round the sweet-smelling closen and rich woods

Where tawney white and red-flushed clover buds

Shine bonnily and beanfields blossom rips

Shed dainty perfumes and give honey food

To these sweet poets of the summer field

Me much delighting as I stroll along

The narrow path that hay-laid meadow yields

Catching the windings of their wandering song

The black and yellow bumble first on wing

To buzz among the sallow's early flowers

Hiding its nest in hoes from fickle spring

Who stints his rambles with her frequent showers

And one that may for wiser piper pass

In livery dress half sables and half red

Who laps a moss ball in the meadow grass

And hurds her stores when April showers have fled

And russet commoner who knows the face

Of every blossom that the meadow brings

Starting the traveller to a quicker pace

By threatening round his head in many rings

These sweeten summer in their happy glee

By giving for her honey melodie