The birds are gone to bed the cows are still
And sheep lie panting on each old molehill
And underneath the willow's grey-green bough
Like toil a-resting lies the fallow plough
The timid hares throw daylight fears away
On the lane road to dust and dance and play
Then dabble in the grain by nought deterred
To lick the dew-fall from the barley's beard
Then out they sturt again and round the hill
Like happy thoughts - dance - squat - and loiter still
Till milking maidens in the early morn
Gingle their yokes and sturt them in the corn
Through well-known beaten pates each nimbling hare
Sturts quick as
fear - and seeks its hidden lair
John Clare
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