The landscape sleeps in mist from morn till noon;

And, if the sun looks through, ‘tis with a face

Beamless and pale and round, as if the moon,

When done the journey of her nightly race

Had found him sleeping, and supplied his place…


Thus wears the month along, in checker’d moods,

Sunshine and shadows, tempests loud, and calms;

One hour dies silent o’er the sleepy woods,

The next wakes loud with unexpected storms;

A dreary nakedness the field deforms –

Yet many a rural sound, and rural sight,

Lives in the village still about the farms,

Where toil’s rude uproar hums from morn till night

Noises, in which the ears of Industry delight.

From November in The Shepherd’s Calendar by John Clare

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