by John Clare
Whose eyes were those that came this way?
In shadows slant what creatures crept?
Where goes this path at close of day?
Why walk ye as others slept?
Where lurks the dew drenched denizens?
A shiver awaiting days warming light.
Twisting, turning, the never focused lens.
Why walk ye through blur of night?
On bent knee in worshipful dawning,
Images begin the flow of blending.
To the infant sliver of light drawn.
Why walk ye this path never ending?
From edges of bogs comes the dawn,
To my feeble, sinking side so near.
Eyes upon thousand eyes all alone.
Why drop ye thou single tear?
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