Autumn

Poem By John Clare

The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.

The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

Comments about Autumn

Add a comment.SadhuramHansda
I like this work, a very different way of describing nature. Autumnal air fused with eternity.
He has a different way of seeing Autumn than many of the poets I've been reading. Without diminishing the effect of the others, I do like what he is expressing here.
Very expressive of the heat of nature.Specially the first two lines of the last para is wonderful.
Nice work with the ways of nature in Autumn.


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