John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

1. In Summer Showers A Skreeking Noise Is Heard -new- 5/21/2015
2. June 3/26/2015
3. Mouse's Nest 12/17/2014
4. The Badger 1/17/2015
5. The Shepherds Calendar - July (2nd Version) 4/13/2010
6. Idle Fame 4/13/2010
7. The Maid Of Jerusalem 4/13/2010
8. Spear Thistle 4/13/2010
9. The Maid Of Ocram, Or, Lord Gregory 4/13/2010
10. House Or Window Flies 4/13/2010
11. Impromptu 4/13/2010
12. Letter In Verse 4/13/2010
13. Peggy's The Lady Of The Hall 4/13/2010
14. Scandal 4/13/2010
15. The Shepherds Calendar - July 4/13/2010
16. The Lass With The Delicate Air 4/13/2010
17. The Frightened Ploughman 4/13/2010
18. Song #3 4/13/2010
19. The Shepherd's Calendar - October 4/13/2010
20. Song #5 4/13/2010
21. The Cottager 4/13/2010
22. Patty Of The Vale 4/13/2010
23. The Shepherds Calendar - November 4/13/2010
24. Grasshoppers 4/13/2010
25. Graves Of Infants 4/13/2010
26. Song #1 4/13/2010
27. Mary Bateman 4/13/2010
28. In Hilly-Wood 4/13/2010
29. The Shepherd's Calendar - September 4/13/2010
30. The Shepherd's Calendar - August 4/13/2010
31. Stonepit 4/13/2010
32. The Lout 4/13/2010
33. Farm Breakfast 4/13/2010
34. Pleasures Of Fancy 4/13/2010
35. From 4/13/2010
36. The Vanities Of Life 4/13/2010
37. Love 4/13/2010
38. Fragment 4/13/2010
39. Song #2 4/13/2010
40. Merry Maid 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

The Dying Child

He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o'er the green.

His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;
He knew those children of the spring:
When he was well and on the lea

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