John Clare's poems

The rich brown umber hue the oaks unfold

When spring's young sunshine bathes their trunks in gold

So rich so beautiful so past the power

Of words to paint - my heart aches for the dower

The pencil gives to soften and infuse

This brown luxuriance of unfolding hues

This living luscious tinting woodlands give

Into a landscape that might breathe and live

And this old gate that claps against the tree

The entrance of spring's Paradise should be

Yet paint itself with living nature fails

The sunshine threading through these broken rails

In mellow shades - no pencil e'er conveys

And mind alone feels, fancies and pourtrays