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Quotes by John Clare

9 quotations from The Cyclopedia of Practical Quotations (1896), with the subject each one is filed under.

the Groves. Welcome, pale primrose! starting up between Dead matted leaves of ash and oak that strew The every lawn, the wood, and spinney through. 'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green; How much thy presence beautifies the ground! How sweet thy modest unaffected pride Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side— filed under Flowers-Poppy

Old noted oak! I saw thee in a mood Of vague indifference; and yet with me Thy memory, like thy fate, hath lingering stood For years, thou hermit, in the lonely sea Of grass that waves around thee!— filed under Trees And Plants-Oak

Introductory lines to Birthday Ode to Victor Hugo. Sedge-Bird. Fixed in a white-thorn bush, its summer guest, So low, e'en grass o'er-topped its tallest twig, A sedge-bird built its little benty nest, Close by the meadow pool and wooden brig.— filed under Birds-Sea Bird

Thrush. Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound With joy-and oft an unintruding guest, I watch'd her secret toils from day to day; How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest, And modell'd it within with wood and clay. S.— filed under Birds-Thrush

White-Throat. The happy white-throat on the swaying bough, Rocked by the impulse of the gadding wind That ushers in the showers of April, now Carols right joyously; and now reclined, Crouching, she clings close to her moving seat, To keep her hold.— filed under Birthday

The hazel-blooms, in threads of crimson hue, Peep through the swelling buds, foretelling Spring, Ere yet a white-thorn leaf appears in view, Or March finds throstles pleased enough to sing.— filed under Months-March

Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May New blooming blossoms 'neath the sun are born, And all poor April's charms are swept away.— filed under Months-April

Loud is the summer's busy song The smallest breeze can find a tongue, While insects of each tiny size Grow teasing with their melodies, Till noon burns with its blistering breath Around, and day lies still as death.— filed under Months-July

Now musing o'er the changing scene Farmers behind the tavern screen Collect; with elbows idly press'd On hob, reclines the corner's guest, Reading the news to mark again The bankrupt lists or price of grain. Puffiing the while his red-tipt pipe He dreams o'er troubles nearly ripe, Yet, winter's leisure to regale, Hopes better times, and sips his ale.— filed under Occupations-Hatters