Morning.

A poem by John Clare

O now the crimson east, its fire-streak burning,
Tempts me to wander 'neath the blushing morn,
Winding the zig-zag lane, turning and turning,
As winds the crooked fence's wilder'd thorn.
Where is the eye can gaze upon the blushes,
Unmov'd, with which yon cloudless heaven flushes?
I cannot pass the very bramble, weeping
'Neath dewy tear-drops that its spears surround,
Like harlot's mockery on the wan cheek creeping,
Gilding the poison that is meant to wound;--
I cannot pass the bent, ere gales have shaken
Its transient crowning off, each point adorning,--
But all the feelings of my soul awaken,
To own the witcheries of most lovely Morning.