John Clare

“ Whose melancholy faces meet no regret,
Though dreamless of the snare they could not shun.
On moors and commons and the pasture green,
He leaves them undisturbed to root and run,
Enlarging hills that have for ages been
Basking in mossy swellings to the sun;
The pismires too their tip-tops yearly climb
To lay their eggs and hunt the shepherd's crumbs,
Never disturbed save when for summer thyme
The trampling sheep upon their dwelling comes. ”

“ Borrowing the shepherd's knife with palsied hand
To clean and peel it for a morning meal.
Pride's unconcern that hath no heart to feel
Full often in his pottering pace appears,
From whom his turnip-thefts he will conceal,
Who as a tyrant wakes his humble fears,
Whose proud and threatening taunts will fill his eyes with tears. ”

“ And takes her givings with no vain request
To urge them better; he with aught is blest;
For the to-morrow he ne'er feels a fear,
His hopes upon to-day have all their rest;
When labour fails, the workhouse fare is near ”