Core: noun, the most important part of a thing, the essence; from the Latin cor, meaning heart.

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The Weblog at The View from the Core - Wed. 07/16/08 05:28:10 PM

Summertime II

From "Summer Images"

The green lane now I traverse, where it goes
   Nought guessing, till some sudden turn espies
Rude batter'd finger post, that stooping shows
   Where the snug mystery lies;
And then a mossy spire, with ivy crown,
   Cheers up the short surprise,
         And shows a peeping town.

I see the wild flowers, in their summer morn
   Of beauty, feeding on joy's luscious hours;
The gay convolvulus, wreathing round the thorn,
   Agape for honey showers;
And slender kingcup, burnished with the dew
   Of morning's early hours,
         Like gold yminted new.

And mark by rustic bridge, o'er shallow stream,
   Cow-tending boy, to toil unreconciled,
Absorbed as in some vagrant summer dream;
   Who now, in gestures wild,
Starts dancing to his shadow on the wall,
   Feeling self-gratified,
         Nor fearing human thrall.

Or thread the sunny valley laced with streams,
   Or forests rude, and the o'ershadow'd brims
Of simple ponds, where idle shepherd dreams,
   Stretching his listless limbs;
Or trace hay-scented meadows, smooth and long,
   Where joy's wild impulse swims
         In one continued song.

I love at early morn, from new mown swath,
   To see the startled frog his route pursue;
To mark while, leaping o'er the dripping path,
   His bright sides scatter dew,
The early lark that from its bustle flies,
   To hail his matin new;
         And watch him to the skies.

To note on hedgerow baulks, in moisture sprent,
   The jetty snail creep from the mossy thorn,
With earnest heed, and tremulous intent,
   Frail brother of the morn,
That from the tiny bent's dew-misted leaves
   Withdraws his timid horn,
         And fearful vision weaves.

Or swallow heed on smoke-tanned chimney top,
   Wont to be first unsealing Morning's eye,
Ere yet the bee hath gleaned one wayward drop
   Of honey on his thigh;
To see him seek morn's airy couch to sing,
   Until the golden sky
         Bepaint his russet wing.

Or sauntering boy by tanning corn to spy,
   With clapping noise to startle birds away,
And hear him bawl to every passer by
   To know the hour of day;
While the uncradled breezes, fresh and strong,
   With waking blossoms play,
         And breathe Ĉolian song.

I love the south-west wind, or low or loud,
   And not the less when sudden drops of rain
Moisten my glowing cheek from ebon cloud,
   Threatening soft showers again,
That over lands new ploughed and meadow grounds,
   Summer's sweet breath unchain,
         And wake harmonious sounds.

Rich music breathes in Summer's every sound;
   And in her harmony of varied greens,
Woods, meadows, hedge-rows, corn-fields, all around
   Much beauty intervenes,
Filling with harmony the ear and eye;
   While o'er the mingling scenes
         Far spreads the laughing sky.

See, how the wind-enamoured aspen leaves
   Turn up their silver lining to the sun!
And hark! the rustling noise, that oft deceives,
   And makes the sheep-boy run:
The sound so mimics fast-approaching showers,
   He thinks the rain's begun,
         And hastes to sheltering bowers.

But now the evening curdles dank and grey,
   Changing her watchet hue for sombre weed;
And moping owls, to close the lids of day,
   On drowsy wing proceed;
While chickering crickets, tremulous and long,
   Light's farewell inly heed,
         And give it parting song.

The pranking bat its flighty circlet makes;
   The glow-worm burnishes its lamp anew;
O'er meadows dew-besprent, the beetle wakes
   Inquiries ever new,
Teazing each passing ear with murmurs vain,
   As wanting to pursue
         His homeward path again.

Hark! 'tis the melody of distant bells
   That on the wind with pleasing hum rebounds
By fitful starts, then musically swells
   O'er the dim stilly grounds;
While on the meadow-bridge the pausing boy
   Listens the mellow sounds,
         And hums in vacant joy.

Now homeward-bound, the hedger bundles round
   His evening faggot, and with every stride
His leathern doublet leaves a rustling sound,
   Till silly sheep beside
His path start tremulous, and once again
   Look back dissatisfied,
         And scour the dewy plain.

John Clare (1793-1864)

The Oxford Book of Regency Verse (1928), ed. H.S. Milford, # 283.

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Wed. 07/16/08 05:28:10 PM
Categorized as Literary.


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Cor ad cor loquitur J. H. Newman — “Heart speaks to heart”