John Clare (1793-1864)

Fenland Poet.
There's not a hill in all the view,
Save that a forkèd cloud or two
Upon the verge of distance lies
And into mountains cheats the eyes.
And as to trees, the willows wear
Lopped heads as high as bushes are;
Some taller things the distance shrouds,
That may be trees or stacks or clouds,
Or may be nothing; still they wear
A semblance where there's naught to spare.