John Clare's poems

Now evening comes and from the new-laid hedge

The woodman rustles in his leathen guise

Hiding in dyke, ylined with brustling sedge,

His bill and mattock from theft's meddling eyes

And in his wallets storing many a pledge

Of flowers and boughs from early sprouting trees

And painted pootys from the ivied hedge

About its mossy roots, his boys to please,

Who wait with merry joy his coming home

Anticipating presents such as these

Gained far afield where they nor night nor morn

Find no school leisure long enough to go

Where flowers but rarely from their stalks are torn

And birds scarce loose a nest the season through