Summer Moods

John Clare (1793–1864)

I LOVE at eventide to walk alone,

Down narrow glens, o’erhung with dewy thorn,

Where from the long grass underneath, the snail,

Jet black, creeps out, and sprouts his timid horn.

I love to muse o’er meadows newly mown,

Where withering grass perfumes the sultry air;

Where bees search round, with sad and weary drone,

In vain, for flowers that bloomed but newly there;

While in the juicy corn the hidden quail

Cries, “Wet my foot;” and, hid as thoughts unborn,

The fairy-like and seldom-seen land-rail

Utters “Craik, craik,” like voices underground,

Right glad to meet the evening’s dewy veil,

And see the light fade into gloom around.