DeWint I would not flatter, nor would I
Pretend to critic-skill in this thy art
Yet in thy landscape I can well descry
The breathing hues an nature counterpart
No painted peaks, no wild romantic sky
No rocks no 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 be fringed with willow tree
Rivalled the beauties of Italian skies
John Clare (1793-1864), To DeWint, published as part of The Rural Muse’ Collection in 1835