Friday, January 20, 2017


To My Cottage

Thou lowly cot where first my breath I drew,

Past joys endear thee, childhood's past delight

Where each you summer's pictured on my view,

And, dearer still, the happy winter-night

When the storm pelted down with all his might

And roared and bellowed in the chimney-top

And pattered vehement 'against the window-light

And on the threshold fell the quick eaves-drop.

How blest I've listened on my corner stool,

Heard the storm rage, and hugged my happy spot,

While the fond parent wound her whirring spool

And spared a sigh for the poor wanderer's lot.

In thee, sweet hut, this happiness was proved,

And these endear and make thee doubly loved.


John Clare  (1793~1864)
poems selected by Paul Farley
Faber 2007