"The Nightingale’s Nest" by John Clare (read by Toby Jones) скачать в хорошем качестве

"The Nightingale’s Nest" by John Clare (read by Toby Jones)

"The Nightingale’s Nest" by John Clare Up this green woodland ride let’s softly rove And list the nightingale – she dwelleth here. Hush! let the wood gate softly clap – for fear The noise might drive her from her home of love; For here I’ve heard her many a merry year At morn and eve, nay, all the live-long day As though she lived on song – this very spot, Just where that old man’s beard all wildly trails Rude arbours o’er the road and stops the way, And where that child its bluebell flowers hath got, Laughing and creeping through the mossy rails. There have I hunted like a very boy Creeping on hands and knees through matted thorns To find her nest and see her feed her young, And vainly did I many hours employ: All seemed as hidden as a thought unborn. And where these crimping fern leaves ramp among The hazel’s underboughs – I’ve nestled down And watched her while she sung – and her renown Hath made me marvel that so famed a bird Should have no better dress than russet brown. Her wings would tremble in her ecstasy And feathers stand on end as ’twere with joy And mouth wide open to release her heart Of its out-sobbing songs – the happiest part Of Summer’s fame she shared – for so to me Did happy fancies shapen her employ; But if I touched a bush or scarcely stirred All in a moment stopped – I watched in vain: The timid bird had left the hazel bush And at a distance hid to sing again, Lost in a wilderness of listening leaves. Rich ecstasy would pour its luscious strain Till envy spurred the emulating thrush To start less wild and scarce inferior songs, For cares with him for half the year remain To damp the ardour of his speckled breast, While nightingales to Summer’s life belongs, And naked trees and Winter’s nipping wrongs Are strangers to her music and her rest. Her joys are evergreen; her world is wide. – Hark! there she is, as usual, let’s be hush, For in this blackthorn clump if rightly guessed Her curious house is hidden – part aside These hazel branches in a gentle way And stoop right cautious ’neath the rustling boughs; For we will have another search today And hunt this fern-strown thorn-clump round and round, And where this seeded woodgrass idly bows We’ll wade right through; it is a likely nook. In such-like spots and often on the ground They’ll build where rude boys never think to look. Aye, as I live, her secret nest is here, Upon this whitethorn stulp – I’ve searched about For hours in vain – there; put that bramble by. Nay, trample on its branches and get near – How subtle is the bird; she started out And raised a plaintive note of danger nigh Ere we were past the brambles, and now near Her nest she sudden stops – as choking fear That might betray her home – so even now We’ll leave it as we found it – safety’s guard Of pathless solitudes shall keep it still. See; there she’s sitting on the old oak bough, Mute in her fears – our presence doth retard Her joys and doubt turns every rapture chill. Sing on, sweet bird; may no worse hap befall Thy visions than the fear that now deceives. We will not plunder music of its dower Nor turn this spot of happiness to thrall, For melody seems hid in every flower That blossoms near thy home – these harebells all Seems bowing with the beautiful in song, And gaping cuckoo with its spotted leaves Seems blushing of the singing it has heard. How curious is the nest. No other bird Uses such loose materials or weaves Their dwellings in such spots – dead oaken leaves Are placed without and velvet moss within And little scraps of grass – and scant and spare Of what seems scarce materials, down and hair, For from man’s haunts she seemeth nought to win. Yet nature is the builder and contrives Homes for her childern’s comfort even here Where solitude’s disciples spend their lives Unseen save when a wanderer passes near That loves such pleasant places – Deep adown The nest is made an hermit’s mossy cell. Snug lies her curious eggs, in number five, Of deadened green or rather olive brown And the old prickly thorn bush guards them well. And here we’ll leave them still unknown to wrong As the old woodland’s legacy of song. Source: Toby Jones reads John Clare, 2019 ☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ DISCLAIMER: This is a non-monetized channel. Absolutely no copyright infringement intended. This video for educational/entertainment purpose only. I do not own nor claim to own anything in this video. The videos/audios/photos are property of their rightful owners. All credit goes to the owners of all the materials used in this video. * ৳৸ᵃᵑᵏ Ꮍ৹੫ᵎ * #poetry #poem #actorsreadingpoetry