I love to see the summer’s morn Upon the hills the dew is born, When to the vale the leaves descend, And whisper to the winds that bend,

When all the balmy air is bright, When fleecy clouds are weaving white And dreamy vapours float along In languid lines of grace and song.

O let me wander where you will, To watch the cuckoo on the hill, To mark the flowers all in their prime And kiss the silver bells in rhyme.

• John Clare