The Peasant Poet
by John Clare (1793-1864)

He loved the brook’s soft sound,
      The swallow swimming by.
He loved the daisy-covered ground,
      The cloud-bedappled sky.
To him the dismal storm appeared
      The very voice of God;
And when the evening rack was reared
      Stood Moses with his rod.
And everything his eyes surveyed,
      The insects i’ the brake,
Were creatures God Almighty made,
      He loved them for His sake–
A silent man in life’s affairs,
      A thinker from a boy,
A peasant in his daily cares,
      A poet in his joy.

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