The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still, …
John Clare
I ne’er was struck before that hour …
I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows? …
I hid my love when young till I …
Love lives beyond …
Love, meet me in the green glen, …
Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come, …
Now swarthy Summer, by rude health embrowned, …
He could not die when trees were green, …
The rolls and harrows lie at rest beside …
Just by the wooden brig a bird flew up, …
Well, honest John, how fare you now at home? …
And what is Life?—An hour-glass on the run, …