Field Path by John Clare

    The beams in blossom with their spots of jet
    Smelt sweet as gardens wheresoever met;
    The level meadow grass was in the swath;
    The hedge briar rose hung right across the path,
    White over with its flowers–the grass that lay
    Bleaching beneath the twittering heat to hay
    Smelt so deliciously, the puzzled bee
    Went wondering where the honey sweets could be;
    And passer-bye along the level rows
    Stoopt down and whipt a bit beneath his nose.