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Emmonsails Heath in Winter

John Clare (1793-1864), Emmonsails Heath in Winter 'I love to see the old heath's withered brake Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling While the old heron from the lonely lake Starts slow and flaps his melancholly wing, And oddling crow in idle motion swing On the half-rotten ash tree's topmost twig, Beside whose trunk the gipsy makes his bed . Up flies the bouncing woodcock from the brig Where a black quagmire quakes beneath the tread, The fieldfare chatter in the whistling thorn And for the haw round fields and closen rove, And coy bumbarrels twenty in a drove Flit down the hedge rows in the frozen plain And hang on little twigs and start again.'

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