Autumn Poem by John Clare


Rating: 3.1

The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.

The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.

Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.

Hazel Dunn 12 July 2012

A thought provoking poem, still current today.

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sadhuram hansda 11 April 2019

Add a comment.SadhuramHansda

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Amar Agarwala 02 May 2016

I like this work, a very different way of describing nature. Autumnal air fused with eternity.

3 1 Reply
Susan Williams 14 October 2015

He has a different way of seeing Autumn than many of the poets I've been reading. Without diminishing the effect of the others, I do like what he is expressing here.

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Anish Debnath 14 October 2015

Very expressive of the heat of nature.Specially the first two lines of the last para is wonderful.

5 1 Reply
Edward Kofi Louis 14 October 2015

Nice work with the ways of nature in Autumn.

2 1 Reply
John Clare

John Clare

Northamptonshire / England
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