John Clare's poems

The one delicious green that now pervades

The woods and fields in endless lights and shades

And that deep softness of delicious hues

That overhead blends - softens - and subdues

The eye to extacy and fills the mind

With views and visions of enchanting kind

While on the velvet down beneath the swail

I sit on mossy stulp and brocken rail

Or lean o'er crippled gate by huge old tree

Brocken by boys disporting there at swee

While sunshine spread from an exaustless sky

Gives all things extacy as well as I

And all wood-swaily places, even they

Are joy's own tennants, keeping holiday