John Clare

Ballad

    A weedling wild, on lonely lea,
    My evening rambles chanc’d to see;
    And much the weedling tempted me
          To crop its tender flower:
    Expos’d to wind and heavy rain,
    Its head bow’d lowly on the plain;
    And silently it seem’d in pain
          Of life’s endanger’d hour.

    “And wilt thou bid my bloom decay,
    And crop my flower, and me betray?
    And cast my injur’d sweets away,”--
          Its silence seemly sigh’d--
    “A moment’s idol of thy mind?
    And is a stranger so unkind,
    To leave a shameful root behind,
          Bereft of all its pride?”

    And so it seemly did complain;
    And beating fell the heavy rain;
    And how it droop’d upon the plain,
          To fate resign’d to fall:
    My heart did melt at its decline,
    And “Come,” said I, “thou gem divine,
    My fate shall stand the storm with thine:”
          So took the root and all.