Sunday, 19 May 2013

Talking to birds

Sometimes it is worth stopping. And listening.

Even on a Monday AM.

See what you hear.





The cowboy with his oaten straw,
Although he hardly heard or saw
No more of music than he made,
Twas sweet; and when I pluckt the blade
Of grass upon the woodland hill
To mock the birds with artless skill,
No music in the world beside
Seemed half so sweet, till mine was tried.
So my boy- worship poesy
Made e'en the muses pleased with me,
Until I even danced for joy,
A happy and a lonely boy,
Each object to my ear and eye
Made paradise of poesy.

Extract from The progress of poetry by John Clare

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