 The cocks have now the mourn foretold, The sun again begins to peep, The shepherd whistling to his fold, Unpens and frees the captive sheep, Or pathless planes at early hours, The sleepy rustic slummy goes, The dews brushed off from grass and flowers, Bemoistening sop his hardened shoes, While every leaf that forms a shade, And every flower at silk and top, And every shivering, bent and blade, Stoops bowing with a diamond drop. But soon shall fly those diamond drops, The red round sun advances higher, And stretching o'er the mountain tops Is gilding sweet the village spire. To sweet to meet the morning breeze, Or list the gurgling of the brook, Or stretching beneath the shade of trees, Peruse and pause on nature's book. In nature every sweet prepares To entertain our wish delay, The images which morning wears The wakening charms of early day. Now let me tread the meadow paths, While glittering dew the ground alooms, As sprinkled o'er the withering swads, Their moisture shrinks and sweet perfumes, And hear the beetle sound as horn, And hear the skylark whistling nigh, Drung from his bed of tufted corn, A hailing minstrel from the sky. Summer Morning by John Clare Read for LibriVox.org by David Lawrence. The cocks have now the mourn foretold, The sun again begins to peep, The shepherd whistling to his fold, Unpens and frees the captive sheep, For pathless plains at early hours The sleeping rustic slummy goes. The dews, brushed off from grass and flowers, Be moistening sop his hardened shoes. While every leaf that forms a shade, And every flowerlets silk and top, And every shivering bent and blade, Stoops balling with a diamond drop. But soon shall fly those diamond drops The red-round sun advances higher, And stretching o'er the mountaintops Is gilding sweet the village spire. To sweet to meet the morning breeze, Or lest the gurgling of the brook, Or stretched beneath the shade of trees, Peruse and pause on nature's book. When nature every sweet prepares To entertain our wish delay, The images which morning wears, The wakening charms of early day. Now let me tread the metal paths, While glittering do the ground delumes, Sprinkled o'er the withering swaths, Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes. And hear the beetles sound as horn, And hear the sky-lark whistling nigh, Sprung from his bed of tufted corn, A hailing minstrel from the sky. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Summer Morning by John Clare, Read for LibriVox.org by David Rhys-Thomas At www.davidrhysthomas.com The cocks of now the morn foretold, The sun again begins to peep, The shepherd whistling to his fold, And pens and frees the captive sheep. Or pastless plains at early hours, The sleepy rustic slum he goes, The dew's brushed off from grass and flowers, Be moistening sop his hardened shoes, While every leaf that forms a shade, And every flower at silk and top, And every shivering bent and blade Stoops bowing with a diamond drop, But soon shall fly those diamond drops, The red-round sun advances higher, And stretching o'er the mountain tops, Is gliding sweet the village spire, To sweet to meet the morning breeze, Or list the gurgling of the brook, Or stretched beneath the shade of trees, Peruse and pause on nature's book, When nature, every sweet prepares, To entertain our wish delay, The images which morning wears, The waking charms of early day. Now let me tread the meadow pass, Whilst glittering dew the ground elumes, As sprinkled o'er the withering swaths, The moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes, And hear the beetle sound his horn, And hear the sky-lark whistling nigh, Sprung from his bed of tufted corn, A hailing minstrel from the sky. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Summer morning by John Clare, read for LibriVox.org by Ernst Patinama. The cocks have now the mourn foretold. The sun again begins to peep. The shepherd whistling to his fold, Unpents and frees the captive sheep. Or pathless plains at early hours, To sleep rustic slowly goes. The Jews, brushed off from grass and flowers, Be moistening sop his hardened shoes, At every leaf that forms a shade, And every flower its silken top, And every shivering bend and blade, Stoops bowing with a diamond drop. But soon shall fly those diamond drops, The red-round sun advances higher, And stretching o'er the mountain tops, Is gilding sweet the village spire. Is sweet to meet the morning breeze, Or list the gurgling of the brook, Or stretched beneath a shade of trees, Peruse and pause on nature's book, When nature every sweet prepares To entertain our wished delay, The images which morning wears, The wakening charms of early day. Now let me tread the meadow-paths, While glittering dew to ground elumes, As sprinkled o'er the withering swaths, Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes, And hear the beetle sound his horn, And hear the sky-lark whistling high, Sprung from his bed of tufted corn, A hailing minstrel from the sky. Summer morning by John Clare, Red for LibriVox by Ian Gray. The cocks have now the mourn foretold, The sun again begins to peep, The shepherd whistling to his fold, Unpens and frees the captive sheep. Our pathless plains at early hours, The sleepy rustic slumigos, The dews brushed off from grass and flowers, Be moistening soft his hardened shoes. While every leaf that forms a shade, And every flower at silk and top, And every shivering bent and blade, Stoops, bowing with a diamond drop. But soon shall fly those diamond drops, The red-round sun advances higher, And stretching over the mountaintops, Is gilding sweet the village spire. Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze, Or list the gurgling of the brook, Or stretch beneath the shade of trees, Peruse and pause on nature's book. When nature every sweet prepares to entertain our wished delay, The images which morning wears, The wakening charms of early day. Now let me tread the meadow-paths, While glittering dew the ground elumes, As sprinkled over the withering swaths Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes. And hear the beetle sound his horn, And hear the skylark whistling nigh, Sprung from his bed of tufted corn, A hailing minstrel from the sky. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Summer morning by John Clare. Read for LibriVox.org by Rosie. The cocks have now the mourn foretold, The sun again begins to peep, The shepherd whistling to his fold, Unpens and frees the captive sheep. Or pathless planes at early hours, The sleepy rustic slummy goes, The dews brushed off from grass and flowers, Be moistening sop his hardened shoes. While every leaf that forms a shade, And every flower at silk and top, And every shivering bent and blade, Stoops bowing with a diamond drop. But soon shall fly those diamond drops, The red round sun advances higher, And stretching o'er the mountain tops Is gilding sweet the village spire. Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze, Or list the gurgling of the brook, Or stretched beneath the shade of trees, Peruse and pause on nature's book. When nature every sweet prepares To entertain our wish delay, The images which morning wears The wakening charms of early day. Now let me tread the meadow paths, While glittering do the ground elumes, As sprinkled o'er the withering swaths, Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes, And hear the beetle sound his horn, And hear the skylark whistling nigh, Sprung from his bed of tufted corn, A hailing minstrel from the sky. Now the mournful told, The sun again begins to peep, The shepherd whistling to his fold, Unpens and frees the captive sheep. O pathless plains at early hours, The sleepy rustic slummy goes, The Jews brushed off from grass and flowers, Be moistening sop his hardened shoes. While every leaf that forms a shade, And every flower at silk and top, And every shivering bent and blade, Stoops bowing with a diamond drop, But soon shall fly those diamond drops, The red round sun advances higher, And stretching o'er the mountain tops Is gilding sweet the village spire, Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze, Or list the gurgling of the brook, Or stretched beneath the shade of trees, Peruse and pause on nature's book, When nature every sweet prepares To entertain our wished delay, The images which morning wears The wakening charms of early day. Now let me tread the meadow path, While glittering due the groundy looms, As sprinkled o'er the withering swaths, The moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes, And hear the beetle sound his horn, And hear the sky-lag whistling nigh, Sprung from his bed of tufted corn, A hailing minstrel from the sky. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Summer Morning by John Clare Read for LibriVox.org by Miriam Esther Goldman The cocks of now the mourn foretold, The sun again begins to peep, The shepherd whistling to his fold On pens and frees the captive sheep, Or pathless planes at early hours The sleepy rustic salumi goes, The dews brushed off from grass and flowers, Be moistening sop his hardened shoes. While every leaf that forms a shade, And every flower at silk and top, And every shivering bent and blade Stoops bowing with a diamond drop, But soon shall fly those diamond drops, The red round sun advances higher, And stretching all over the mountain tops His gilding sweet, the village spire. Tis sweet to meet the morning breeze, Or list the gurgling of the brook, Or stretched beneath the shade of trees Peruse and pause on nature's book. When nature, every sweep, Repairs to entertain our wish delay, The images which morning wears The wakening charms of early day. Now let me tread the meadow paths, While glittering dew the ground elumes, As sprinkled oar the withering swaths, Their moisture shrinks in sweet perfumes, And hear the beetle sound his horn, And hear the skylark whistling nigh, Sprung from his bed of tofted corn, A hailing minstrel from the sky. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.