Away, Away, In Crimson Clovers

A Victorian poem about the days of yore in the countryside.

Sadden'd blooms of a winter, 
Have blossom'd and splinter,
As sinewy leaves by a stump,
Become the low rosette clump.

The round stipules swell near,
The forsaken stems too drear,
On the damp and fresh lands,
With the reaper's weary hands.  

The till'd land bleak and fallow,
By the stream once too shallow,
Now full of harbingers of springs,
That glide with soothing wings.

The dry fagots gather'd deftly,
To warm the new fires swiftly,
As a harvest kinsfolk glean'd,
With the bare seeds wean'd.

The crispy branches drooping, 
Within the long spikes stooping,
Beneath wary clouds that warn,  
Above a gambrel roof of a barn.
  
The mighty winds nearby a lee,
Sough amain on fields that dree,
Bringing the rains onto a hillside,
That soften the oak trees beside.

Where gleesome nodes tarry. 
Beyond leery crops that parry,
The murk of a drought easterly,
Waning straightway westerly.

Feel the waft of a fresh breath,
Sheltering the shade of death,  
Whence winsome guises shed, 
The wrought fields madder red.

Hence where rakish children,
Loaf amongst the fain women,  
Amidst the driblets of flowers, 
Thriving in morning showers.

Swains bear lapels drench'd,
In the smell of a lea quench'd,
Away, away, in crimson clovers, 
That sway the hearts of lovers.