Field Path

By John Clare

The beams in blossom with their spots of jet Smelt sweet as gardens wheresoever met; The level meadow grass was in the swath; The hedge briar rose hung right across the path, White over with its flowers--the grass that lay Bleaching beneath the twittering heat to hay Smelt so deliciously, the puzzled bee Went wondering where the honey sweets could be; And passer-bye along the level rows Stoopt down and whipt a bit beneath his nose.