COTSWOLD LOVE
John Drinkwater 1882-1937

Blue skies are over Cotswold
 And April snows go by,
The lasses turn their ribbons
 For April's in the sky,
And April is the season
 When Sabbath girls are dressed,
From Rodboro' to Campden,
 In all their silken best.

An ankle is a marvel
 When first the buds are brown,
And not a lass but knows it
 From Stow to Gloucester town.
And not a girl goes walking
 Along the Cotswold lanes
But knows men's eyes in April
 Are quicker than their brains.

It's little that it matters,
 So long as you're alive,
If you're eighteen in April,
 Or rising sixty-five,
When April comes to Amberley
 With skies of April blue,
And Cotswold girls are briding
 With slyly tilted shoe.

-o0o-

THE BEST THING IN THE WORLD?
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-61

What's the best thing in the world?
June-rose, by May-dew impearled;
Sweet south-wind, that means no rain;
Truth, not cruel to a friend;
Pleasure, not in haste to end;
Beauty, not self-decked and curled
Till its pride is over-plain;
Love, when, so, you're loved again.
What's the best thing in the world?
- Something out of it, I think.

-o0o-

SUMMER  (1865)
John Clare 1793-1864

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come,
For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom,
And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest,
And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast;
She sits beneath the whitethorn a-plaiting of her hair,
And I will to my true lover with a fond request repair;
I will look upon her face, I will in her beauty rest,
And lay my aching weariness upon her lovely breast.

The clock-a-clay* is creeping on the open bloom of May,
The merry bee is trampling the pinky threads all day,
And the chaffinch it is brooding on its grey mossy nest
In the whitethorn bush where I will lean upon my lover's breast;
I'll lean upon her breast and I'll whisper in her ear
That I cannot get a wink o'sleep for thinking of my dear;
I hunger at my meat and I daily fade away
Like the hedge rose that is broken in the heat of the day.

*The clock-a-clay or clock o'clay is a 19th century Northamptonshire slang word for ladybird or ladybug.

-o0o-

THE THOMAS HARDY POEM

Tess's Lament

I would that folk forgot me quite,
Forgot me quite!
I would that I could shrink from sight,
And no more see the sun.
Would it were time to say farewell,
To claim my nook, to need my knell,
Time for them all to stand and tell
Of my day's work as done.

Ah! dairy where I lived so long,
I lived so long;
Where I would rise up stanch and strong,
And lie down hopefully.
'Twas there within the chimney-seat
He watched me to the clock's slow beat,
Loved me, and learnt to call me sweet,
And whispered words to me.

And now he's gone; and now he's gone -
And now he's gone!
The flowers we potted p'rhaps are thrown
To rot upon the farm.
And where we had our supper-fire
May now grow nettle, dock, and briar,
And all the place be mould and mire
So cozy once and warm.

And it was I who did it all,
Who did it all;
'Twas I who made the blow to fall
On him who thought no guile.
Well, it is finished - past, and he
Has left me to my misery,
And I must take my Cross on me
For wronging him awhile.

How gay we looked that day we wed,
That day we wed!
"May joy be with ye!" all o'm said
A'standing by the durn.
I wonder what they say o's now,
And if they know my lot; and how
She feels who milks my favourite cow,
And takes my place at churn!

It wears me out to think of it,
To think of it;
I cannot bear my fate as writ,
I'd have my life unbe;
Would turn my memory to a blot,
Make every relic of me rot,
My doings be as they were not,
And what they've brought to me!

-o0o-

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