So I up in the morning before the cock crew And to strike me a light I sat down. I saw from the door all his track in the dew And, I guess, called "Come in and sit down." And one, sure enough, tramples up to the door, And who but young Robin his sen? And ere the old folks were half willing to stir We met, kissed, and parted agen. _The Peasant Poet_ He loved the brook's soft sound, The swallow swimming by. He loved the daisy-covered ground, The cloud-bedappled sky. To him the dismal storm appeared The very voice of God; And when the evening rack was reared Stood Moses with his rod. And everything his eyes surveyed, The insects in the brake, Were creatures God Almighty made, He loved them for His sake-- A silent man in life's affairs, A thinker from a boy, A peasant in his daily cares, A poet in his joy. _To John Clare_ Well, honest John, how fare you now at home? The spring is come, and birds are building nests; The old cock robin to the stye is come, With olive feathers and its ruddy breast; And the old cock, with wattles and red comb, Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best, Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs, Swept out by little folks an hour ago; The pigs sleep in the stye; the bookman comes-- The little boy lets home-close nesting go, And pockets tops and taws, where daisies bloom, To look at the new number just laid down, With lots of pictures, and good stories too, And Jack the Giant-killer's high renown. _Feb._ 10, 1860. _Early Spring_ The Spring is come, and Spring flowers coming too, The crocus, patty kay, the rich hearts' ease; The polyanthus peeps with blebs of dew, And daisy flowers; the buds swell on the trees; While oer the odd flowers swim grandfather bees In the old homestead rests the cottage cow; The dogs sit on their haunches near the pail, The least one to the stranger growls "bow wow," Then hurries to the door and cocks his tail, To knaw the unfinished bone; the placid cow Looks oer the gate; the thresher's lumping flail Is all the noise the spring encounters now. _May_ 28, 1860. _Clock-a-Clay_ In the cowslip pips I lie, Hidden from the buzzing fly, While green grass beneath me lies, Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes, Here I lie, a clock-a-clay, Waiting for the time of day. While the forest quakes surprise, And the wild wind sobs and sighs, My home rocks as like to fall, On its pillar green and tall; When the pattering rain drives by Clock-a-clay keeps warm and dry. Day by day and night by night, All the week I hide from sigh; In the cowslip pips I lie, In rain and dew still warm and dry; Day and night, and night and day, Red, black-spotted clock-a-clay. My home shakes in wind and showers, Pale green pillar topped with flowers, Bending at the wild wind's breath, Till I touch the grass beneath; Here I live, lone clock-a-clay, Watching for the time of day. _Little Trotty Wagtail_