‘The Wood anemone’, a poem by John Clare (1793-1864)

The wood anemone through dead oak leaves
And in the thickest woods now blooms anew,

And where the green briar and the bramble weaves
Thick clumps o’green, anemones thicker grew,

And weeping flowers in thousands pearled in dew
People the woods and brakes, hid hollows there,

White, yellow and purple-hued the wide wood through.
What pretty drooping weeping flowers they are:

The clipt-frilled leaves, the slender stalk they bear
On which the drooping flower hangs weeping dew,

How beautiful through April time and May
The woods look, filled with wild anemone;

And every little spinney now looks gay
With flowers mid brushwood and the huge oak tree.