There is the genius of a lover in this description. Here is something finally said. Clare continually labours to make the report of his eye and ear accurate. He even begins one of his _Asylum Poems_ with the line: Sweet chestnuts brown like soling leather turn; and, in another, pursues realism in describing an April evening to the point of writing: Sheep ointment seems to daub the dead-hued sky. His attempt at giving an exact echo of the blue-tit’s song--his very feeble attempt--makes the success of one of his good poems tremble for a moment in the balance: Dreamers, mark the honey bee; Mark the tree Where the blue cap “_tootle tee_” Sings a glee, Sung to Adam and to Eve-- Here they be. When floods covered every bough, Noah’s ark Heard that ballad singing now; Hark, hark. “_Tootle, tootle, tootle tee_”-- Can it be Pride and fame must shadows be? Come and see-- Every season owns her own; Bird and bee Sing creation’s music on; Nature’s glee Is in every mood and tone Eternity. Clare comes nearer an imaginative vision of life in this than in most of his poems. But, where Shelley would have given us an image, Clare is content to set down “_Tootle, tootle, tootle tee_.” His poems of human life are of less account than his poems of bird and insect life; but one of the most beautiful of all his poems, “The Dying Child,” introduces a human figure among the bees and flowers. How moving are the first three verses!: He could not die when trees were green, For he loved the time too well. His little hands, when flowers were seen, Were held for the bluebell, As he was carried o’er the green. His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee, He knew those children of the spring: When he was well and on the lea, He held one in his hands to sing, Which filled his heart with glee. Infants, the children of the spring! How can an infant die When butterflies are on the wing, Green grass, and such a sky? How can they die at spring? The writer of these lines was a poet worth rediscovering, and Messrs. Blunden and Porter have given us a book in which we can wander at will, peering into hedges and at the traffic of the grass, as in few even of the great poets. Mr. Blunden has also written an admirable, though needlessly pugnacious account of the life of The Green Man, as Clare was called in Lamb’s circle because of his clothes. It is a story of struggle, poverty, drink, a moment’s fame without money to correspond, a long family, and the madness of a man who, escaping from the asylum, ate “the grass on the roadside which seemed to taste something like bread.” Knowing the events of his life, we read Clare’s poetry with all the more intense curiosity. And, if we do not expect to find a Blake or a Wordsworth, we shall not be disappointed. Certainly this is a book that must go on the shelf near the works of Mr. Hudson. XII