Among the orchard weeds, from every search, <br />Snugly and sure, the old hen’s nest is made, <br />Who cackles every morning from her perch <br />To tell the servant girl new eggs are laid; <br />Who lays her washing by, and far and near <br />Goes seeking all about from day to day, <br />And stung with nettles tramples everywhere; <br />But still the cackling pullet lays away. <br />The boy on Sundays goes the stack to pull <br />In hopes to find her there, but naught is seen, <br />And takes his hat and thinks to find it full, <br />She’s laid so long so many might have been. <br />But naught is found and all is given o’er <br />Till the young brood come chirping to the door.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hen-s-nest/
