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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117959" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Nightingale's Nest</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">UP this green woodland-ride let's softly rove,<br>And list the nightingale — she dwells just here.<br>Hush ! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear<br>The noise might drive her from her home of love;<br>For here I've heard her many a merry year—<br>At morn, at eve, nay, all the live-long day,<br>As though she lived on song. This very spot,<br>Just where that old-man's-beard all wildly trails<br>Rude arbours o'er the road, and stops the way —<br>And where that child its hlue-bell flowers hath got,<br>Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails—<br>There have I hunted like a very boy,<br>Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorn<br>To find her nest, and see her feed her young.<br>And vainly did I many hours employ:<br>All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn.<br>And where those crimping fern-leaves ramp among<br>The hazel's under boughs, I've nestled down,<br>And watched her while she sung ; and her renown<br>Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird<br>Should have no better dress than russet brown.<br>Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy,<br>And feathers stand on end, as 'twere with joy,<br>And mouth wide open to release her heart<br>Of its out-sobbing songs. The happiest part<br>Of summer's fame she shared, for so to me<br>Did happy fancies shapen her employ;<br>But if I touched a bush, or scarcely stirred,<br>All in a moment stopt. I watched in vain:<br>The timid bird had left the hazel bush,<br>And at a distance hid to sing again.<br>Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves,<br>Rich Ecstasy would pour its luscious strain,<br>Till envy spurred the emulating thrush<br>To start less wild and scarce inferior songs;<br>For while of half the year Care him bereaves,<br>To damp the ardour of his speckled breast;<br>The nightingale to summer's life belongs,<br>And naked trees, and winter's nipping wrongs,<br>Are strangers to her music and her rest.<br>Her joys are evergreen, her world is wide—<br>Hark ! there she is as usual— let's be hush—<br>For in this black-thorn clump, if rightly guest,<br>Her curious house is hidden. Part aside<br>These hazel branches in a gentle way,<br>And stoop right cautious 'neath the rustling boughs,<br>For we will have another search to day,<br>And hunt this fern-strewn thorn-clump round and round;<br>And where this reeded wood-grass idly bows,<br>We'll wade right through, it is a likely nook:<br>In such like spots, and often on the ground,<br>They'll build, where rude boys never think to look—<br>Aye, as I live! her secret nest is here,<br>Upon this white-thorn stump! I've searched about<br>For hours in vain. There! put that bramble by—<br>Nay, trample on its branches and get near.<br>How subtle is the bird! she started out,<br>And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh,<br>Ere we were past the brambles; and now, near<br>Her nest, she sudden stops — as choking fear,<br>That might betray her home. So even now<br>We'll leave it as we found it: safety's guard<br>Of pathless solitudes shall keep it still.<br>See there! she's sitting on the old oak bough,<br>Mute in her fears; our presence doth retard<br>Her joys, and doubt turns every rapture chill.<br>Sing on, sweet bird! may no worse hap befall<br>Thy visions, than the fear that now deceives.<br>We will not plunder music of its dower,<br>Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall;<br>For melody seems hid in every flower,<br>That blossoms near thy home. These harebells all<br>Seem bowing with the beautiful in song;<br>And gaping cuckoo-flower, with spotted leaves,<br>Seems blushing of the singing it has heard.<br>How curious is the nest; no other bird<br>Uses such loose materials, or weaves<br>Its dwelling in such spots: dead oaken leaves<br>Are placed without, and velvet moss within,<br>And little scraps of grass, and, scant and spare,<br>What scarcely seem materials, down and hair;<br>For from men's haunts she nothing seems to win.<br>Yet Nature is the builder, and contrives<br>Homes for her children's comfort, even here;<br>Where Solitude's disciples spend their lives<br>Unseen, save when a wanderer passes near<br>That loves such pleasant places. Deep adown,<br>The nest is made a hermit's mossy cell.<br>Snug lie her curious eggs in number five,<br>Of deadened green, or rather olive brown;<br>And the old prickly thorn-bush guards them well.<br>So here we'll leave them, still unknown to wrong,<br>As the old woodland's legacy of song.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Clare">John Clare</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=117959" data-title="The Nightingale's Nest de John Clare" data-description="UP this green woodland-ride let's softly rove,/And list the nightingale — she dwells just here./Hush ! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fear/The noise might drive her from her home of love;/For here I've heard her many a merry year—/At morn,..."></div>
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