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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419502" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Flitting</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I've left my own old home of homes,<br>Green fields and every pleasant place;<br>The summer like a stranger comes,<br>I pause and hardly know her face.<br>I miss the hazel's happy green,<br>The blue bell's quiet hanging blooms,<br>Where envy's sneer was never seen,<br>Where staring malice never comes.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I miss the heath, its yellow furze,<br>Molehills and rabbit tracks that lead<br>Through beesom, ling, and teazel burrs<br>That spread a wilderness indeed;<br>The woodland oaks and all below<br>That their white powdered branches shield,<br>The mossy paths: the very crow<br>Croaks music in my native field.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I sit me in my corner chair<br>That seems to feel itself from home,<br>And hear bird music here and there<br>From hawthorn hedge and orchard come;<br>I hear, but all is strange and new:<br>I sat on my old bench in June,<br>The sailing puddock's shrill 'peelew'<br>On Royce Wood seemed a sweeter tune.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I walk adown the narrow lane,<br>The nightingale is singing now,<br>But like to me she seems at loss<br>For Royce Wood and its shielding bough.<br>I lean upon the window sill,<br>The trees and summer happy seem;<br>Green, sunny green they shine, but still<br>My heart goes far away to dream.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Of happiness, and thoughts arise<br>With home-bred pictures many a one,<br>Green lanes that shut out burning skies<br>And old crooked stiles to rest upon;<br>Above them hangs the maple tree,<br>Below grass swells a velvet hill,<br>And little footpaths sweet to see<br>Go seeking sweeter places still,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">With bye and bye a brook to cross<br>Oer which a little arch is thrown:<br>No brook is here, I feel the loss<br>From home and friends and all alone.<br>--The stone pit with its shelvy sides<br>Seemed hanging rocks in my esteem;<br>I miss the prospect far and wide<br>From Langley Bush, and so I seem</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alone and in a stranger scene,<br>Far, far from spots my heart esteems,<br>The closen with their ancient green,<br>Heaths, woods, and pastures, sunny streams.<br>The hawthorns here were hung with may,<br>But still they seem in deader green,<br>The sun een seems to lose its way<br>Nor knows the quarter it is in.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I dwell in trifles like a child,<br>I feel as ill becomes a man,<br>And still my thoughts like weedlings wild<br>Grow up to blossom where they can.<br>They turn to places known so long<br>I feel that joy was dwelling there,<br>So home-fed pleasure fills the song<br>That has no present joys to hear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I read in books for happiness,<br>But books are like the sea to joy,<br>They change--as well give age the glass<br>To hunt its visage when a boy.<br>For books they follow fashions new<br>And throw all old esteems away,<br>In crowded streets flowers never grew,<br>But many there hath died away.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Some sing the pomps of chivalry<br>As legends of the ancient time,<br>Where gold and pearls and mystery<br>Are shadows painted for sublime;<br>But passions of sublimity<br>Belong to plain and simpler things,<br>And David underneath a tree<br>Sought when a shepherd Salem's springs,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Where moss did into cushions spring,<br>Forming a seat of velvet hue,<br>A small unnoticed trifling thing<br>To all but heaven's hailing dew.<br>And David's crown hath passed away,<br>Yet poesy breathes his shepherd-skill,<br>His palace lost--and to this day<br>The little moss is blossoming still.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Strange scenes mere shadows are to me,<br>Vague impersonifying things;<br>I love with my old haunts to be<br>By quiet woods and gravel springs,<br>Where little pebbles wear as smooth<br>As hermits' beads by gentle floods,<br>Whose noises do my spirits soothe<br>And warm them into singing moods.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here every tree is strange to me,<br>All foreign things where eer I go,<br>There's none where boyhood made a swee<br>Or clambered up to rob a crow.<br>No hollow tree or woodland bower<br>Well known when joy was beating high,<br>Where beauty ran to shun a shower<br>And love took pains to keep her dry,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And laid the sheaf upon the ground<br>To keep her from the dripping grass,<br>And ran for stocks and set them round<br>Till scarce a drop of rain could pass<br>Through; where the maidens they reclined<br>And sung sweet ballads now forgot,<br>Which brought sweet memories to the mind,<br>But here no memory knows them not.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There have I sat by many a tree<br>And leaned oer many a rural stile,<br>And conned my thoughts as joys to me,<br>Nought heeding who might frown or smile.<br>Twas nature's beauty that inspired<br>My heart with rapture not its own,<br>And she's a fame that never tires;<br>How could I feel myself alone?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No, pasture molehills used to lie<br>And talk to me of sunny days,<br>And then the glad sheep resting bye<br>All still in ruminating praise<br>Of summer and the pleasant place<br>And every weed and blossom too<br>Was looking upward in my face<br>With friendship's welcome 'how do ye do?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">All tenants of an ancient place<br>And heirs of noble heritage,<br>Coeval they with Adam's race<br>And blest with more substantial age.<br>For when the world first saw the sun<br>These little flowers beheld him too,<br>And when his love for earth begun<br>They were the first his smiles to woo.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There little lambtoe bunches springs<br>In red tinged and begolden dye<br>For ever, and like China kings<br>They come but never seem to die.<br>There may-bloom with its little threads<br>Still comes upon the thorny bowers<br>And neer forgets those prickly heads<br>Like fairy pins amid the flowers.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And still they bloom as on the day<br>They first crowned wilderness and rock,<br>When Abel haply wreathed with may<br>The firstlings of his little flock,<br>And Eve might from the matted thorn<br>To deck her lone and lovely brow<br>Reach that same rose that heedless scorn<br>Misnames as the dog rosey now.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Give me no high-flown fangled things,<br>No haughty pomp in marching chime,<br>Where muses play on golden strings<br>And splendour passes for sublime,<br>Where cities stretch as far as fame<br>And fancy's straining eye can go,<br>And piled until the sky for shame<br>Is stooping far away below.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I love the verse that mild and bland<br>Breathes of green fields and open sky,<br>I love the muse that in her hand<br>Bears flowers of native poesy;<br>Who walks nor skips the pasture brook<br>In scorn, but by the drinking horse<br>Leans oer its little brig to look<br>How far the sallows lean across,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And feels a rapture in her breast<br>Upon their root-fringed grains to mark<br>A hermit morehen's sedgy nest<br>Just like a naiad's summer bark.<br>She counts the eggs she cannot reach<br>Admires the spot and loves it well,<br>And yearns, so nature's lessons teach,<br>Amid such neighbourhoods to dwell.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I love the muse who sits her down<br>Upon the molehill's little lap,<br>Who feels no fear to stain her gown<br>And pauses by the hedgerow gap;<br>Not with that affectation, praise<br>Of song, to sing and never see<br>A field flower grown in all her days<br>Or een a forest's aged tree.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Een here my simple feelings nurse<br>A love for every simple weed,<br>And een this little shepherd's purse<br>Grieves me to cut it up; indeed<br>I feel at times a love and joy<br>For every weed and every thing,<br>A feeling kindred from a boy,<br>A feeling brought with every Spring.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And why? this shepherd's purse that grows<br>In this strange spot, in days gone bye<br>Grew in the little garden rows<br>Of my old home now left; and I<br>Feel what I never felt before,<br>This weed an ancient neighbour here,<br>And though I own the spot no more<br>Its every trifle makes it dear.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The ivy at the parlour end,<br>The woodbine at the garden gate,<br>Are all and each affection's friend<br>That render parting desolate.<br>But times will change and friends must part<br>And nature still can make amends;<br>Their memory lingers round the heart<br>Like life whose essence is its friends.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Time looks on pomp with vengeful mood<br>Or killing apathy's disdain;<br>So where old marble cities stood<br>Poor persecuted weeds remain.<br>She feels a love for little things<br>That very few can feel beside,<br>And still the grass eternal springs<br>Where castles stood and grandeur died.</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=419502" data-title="The Flitting de John Clare" data-description="I've left my own old home of homes,
Green fields and every pleasant place;
The summer like a stranger comes,
I pause and hardly know her face.
I miss the hazel's happy green,
The blue bell's quiet hanging blooms,
Where envy's sneer was never seen,..."></div>
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