John Clare

(13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864 / Northamptonshire / England)

John Clare Poems

1. In Summer Showers A Skreeking Noise Is Heard 5/21/2015
2. The Universal Epitaph 10/20/2015
3. June 3/26/2015
4. The Badger 1/17/2015
5. Mouse's Nest 12/17/2014
6. The Lout 4/13/2010
7. The Maid Of Ocram, Or, Lord Gregory 4/13/2010
8. The Lass With The Delicate Air 4/13/2010
9. The Frightened Ploughman 4/13/2010
10. Sunday Dip 4/13/2010
11. The Cottager 4/13/2010
12. Farm Breakfast 4/13/2010
13. Idle Fame 4/13/2010
14. The Maid Of Jerusalem 4/13/2010
15. Spear Thistle 4/13/2010
16. Merry Maid 4/13/2010
17. Peggy's The Lady Of The Hall 4/13/2010
18. House Or Window Flies 4/13/2010
19. Ploughman Singing 4/13/2010
20. Nobody Cometh To Woo 4/13/2010
21. Letter In Verse 4/13/2010
22. The Beautiful Stranger 4/13/2010
23. Nature's Hymn To The Deity 4/13/2010
24. Scandal 4/13/2010
25. The Crow Sat On The Willow 4/13/2010
26. The Old Cottagers 4/13/2010
27. Market Day 4/13/2010
28. The Shepherds Calendar - July 4/13/2010
29. Patty Of The Vale 4/13/2010
30. Song #3 4/13/2010
31. The Shepherd's Calendar - October 4/13/2010
32. Song #5 4/13/2010
33. The Shepherds Calendar - November 4/13/2010
34. Graves Of Infants 4/13/2010
35. Mary Bateman 4/13/2010
36. The Fear Of Flowers 4/13/2010
37. Stonepit 4/13/2010
38. The Shepherd's Calendar - August 4/13/2010
39. Now Is Past 4/13/2010
40. The Shepherds Calendar - July (2nd Version) 4/13/2010
Best Poem of John Clare

I Am

I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am! and live with shadows tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--
Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never ...

Read the full of I Am

To John Clare

Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?
The spring is come, and birds are building nests;
The old cock-robin to the sty is come,
With olive feathers and its ruddy breast;
And the old cock, with wattles and red comb,
Struts with the hens, and seems to like some best,
Then crows, and looks about for little crumbs,
Swept out by little folks an hour ago;
The pigs sleep in the sty; the bookman comes--

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