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.