Summer By John Clare How sweet, when weary, dropping on a bank, Turning a look around on things that be! E’en feather-headed grasses, spindling rank, A trembling to the breeze one loves to see; And yellow buttercup, where many a bee Comes buzzing to its head and bows it down; And the great dragon-fly with gauzy wings, In gilded coat of purple, green, or brown, That on broad leaves of hazel basking clings, Fond of the sunny day:--and other things Past counting, please me while thus here I lie. But still reflective pains are not forgot: Summer sometime shall bless this spot when I Hapt in the cold dark grave, can heed it not. Staff Photos by Thom Barker
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