Here is a sonnet by John Clare (1793-1864)--crazy, messy, clumsy, prescient John Clare, the accidental poet, clinging to the garments of Wordsworth; trying to say what he saw, and sometimes doing it. Call him the Gregory Corso of the Romantics.
To John ClareJohn ClareWell, honest John, how fare you now at home?The spring is come and birds are building nests,The old cock robin to the sty is comeWith olive feathers and its ruddy breast,And the old cock with wattles and red combStruts with the hens and seems to like some best,Then crows and looks about for little crumbsSwept out by little folks an hour ago;The pigs sleep in the sty, the book man comes,The little boy lets home-close nesting goAnd pockets tops and taws where daisies bloomTo look at the new number just laid downWith lots of pictures and good stories tooAnd Jack-the-giant-killer's high renown.
Dinner tonight: Chicken with lovage, garlic greens, chives, and hop shoots. Salad of mixed wild greens picked in the rain. New bread. Custard pie with today's eggs. I want to make dinners like this every day of my life.