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Poem by John Clare


Autumn


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. 



John Clare

Poem Theme: Autumn

John Clare's other poems:
  1. Language Has Not the Power to Speak What Love Indites
  2. Wood Rides
  3. The Maid Of Jerusalem
  4. To Napoleon
  5. Farm Breakfast


Poems of the other poets with the same name:

  • Samuel Johnson Autumn ("Alas! with swift and silent pace")
  • William Morris Autumn ("Laden Autumn here I stand")
  • Anna Barbauld Autumn ("Farewell the softer hours, Spring's opening blush")
  • Philip Bailey Autumn ("Tis Autumn--and the winds are high")
  • Francis Ledwidge Autumn ("Now leafy winds are blowing cold")
  • William Watson Autumn ("Thou burden of all songs the earth hath sung")
  • Thomas Nashe Autumn ("Autumn hath all the summer's fruitful treasure")
  • Walter Landor Autumn ("Mild is the parting year, and sweet")
  • Alexander Posey Autumn ("IN the dreamy silence")
  • Lydia Sigourney Autumn ("Tree! why hast thou doffed thy mantle of green")

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