Song by John Clare

"Here morning in the ploughman's songs is met     Ere yet one footstep shows in all the sky,     And twilight in the east, a doubt as yet,     S"

"How oft on Sundays, when I'd time to tramp,     My rambles led me to a gipsy's camp,     Where the real effigy of midnight hags,     With tawny"

"The setting Sun withdraws his yellow light,     A gloomy staining shadows over all,     While the brown beetle, trumpeter of Night,     Proclai"

"Where the broad sheepwalk bare and brown     [Yields] scant grass pining after showers,     And winds go fanning up and down     The little str"

"‘WHERE shall we go for our garlands glad At the falling of the year, When the burnt-up banks are yellow and sad, When the boughs are yellow and sere?"

"I Ay, it is fitting on this holiday, Commemorative of our soldier dead, When -- with sweet flowers of our New England May Hiding the lichened stones"