A path, old tree, goes by thee crooking on, <br />And through this little gate that claps and bangs <br />Against thy rifted trunk, what steps hath gone? <br />Though but a lonely way, yet mystery hangs <br />Oer crowds of pastoral scenes recordless here. <br />The boy might climb the nest in thy young boughs <br />That's slept half an eternity; in fear <br />The herdsman may have left his startled cows <br />For shelter when heaven's thunder voice was near; <br />Here too the woodman on his wallet laid <br />For pillow may have slept an hour away; <br />And poet pastoral, lover of the shade, <br />Here sat and mused half some long summer day <br />While some old shepherd listened to the lay.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/pleasures-of-fancy/
