To DeWint
De Wint! I would not flatter nor would I
Pretend to critic-skill in this thine art,
Yet in thy landscapes I can well descry
Thy breathing hues as nature’s counterpart.
No painted freaks, no wild romantic sky,
No rocks nor mountains as the rich sublime,
Hath made thee famous, but the sunny truth
Of nature that doth mark thee for all time,
Found on our level pastures – spots, forsooth,
Where common skill sees nothing deemed divine.
Yet here a worshipper was found in thee,
Where thy young pencil worked such rich surprise
That rushy flats befringed with willow tree
Rivalled the beauties of Italian skies.
John Clare
from The Rural Muse, 1835