Well, honest John, how fare you now at home? <br />The spring is come, and birds are building nests; <br />The old cock-robin to the sty is come, <br />With olive feathers and its ruddy breast; <br />And the old cock, with wattles and red comb, <br />Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best, <br />Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs, <br />Swept out by little folks an hour ago; <br />The pigs sleep in the sty; the bookman comes-- <br />The little boy lets home-close nesting go, <br />And pockets tops and taws, where daisies blow, <br />To look at the new number just laid down, <br />With lots of pictures, and good stories too, <br />And Jack the Giant-killer's high renown.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-john-clare/
