THE HAPPY BIRD John Clare p. 1835 ======================= The happy white throat on the sweeing bough Swayed by the impulse of the gadding wind That ushers in the showers of april--now Singeth right joyously and now reclined Croucheth and clingeth to her moving seat To keep her hold--and till the wind for rest Pauses--she mutters inward melodys That seems her hearts rich thinkings to repeat And when the branch is still--her little breast Swells out in raptures gushing symphonys And then against her blown wing softly prest The wind comes playing an enraptured guest This way and that she swees--till gusts arise More boisterous in their play--when off she flies ======== ========