John Clare's poems

The woodland swamps with mosses varified

And bullrush forests bowing by the side

Of shagroot sallows that snug shelter make

For the coy morehen in her bushy lake

Into whose tide a little runnel weaves

Such charms for silence through the choaking leaves

And whimpling melodies that but intrude

As lullabys to ancient solitude

The wood-grass plats which last year left behind

Weaving their feathery lightness to the wind

Look now as picturesque amid the scene

As when the summer glossed their stems in green

While hasty hare brunts through the creepy gap

Seeks their soft beds and squats in safety's lap