The Arbour.
By John Clare
There is a wilder'd spot delights me well,
Pent in a corner of my native vale,
Where tiny blossoms with a purple bell
Shiver their beauties to the autumn-gale.
'Tis one of those mean arbours that prevail
With manhood's weakness, still to seek and love
For what is past:--Destruction's axe did fail
To cut it down with its companion grove.
Though but a trifling thorn, oft shelt'ring warm
A brood of summer birds, by nature led
To seek for covert in a hasty storm;
I often think it lifts its lonely cares,
In piteous bloom where all the rest are fled,
Like a poor warrior the rude battle spares.