The thistledown's flying, though the winds are all still, <br />On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill, <br />The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot; <br />Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot. <br /> <br />The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread, <br />The greensward all wracked is, bents dried up and dead. <br />The fallow fields glitter like water indeed, <br />And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed. <br /> <br />Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun, <br />And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run; <br />Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air; <br />Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/autumn-133/
