John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

41. Grasshoppers 4/13/2010
42. Graves Of Infants 4/13/2010
43. Hen's Nest 1/3/2003
44. Hodge 4/13/2010
45. House Or Window Flies 4/13/2010
46. I Am 1/3/2003
47. I Dreamt Of Robin 4/13/2010
48. I Hid My Love 1/3/2003
49. Idle Fame 4/13/2010
50. Impromptu 4/13/2010
51. In Hilly-Wood 4/13/2010
52. In Summer Showers A Skreeking Noise Is Heard 5/21/2015
53. Insects 1/3/2003
54. Invitation To Eternity 4/13/2010
55. June 3/26/2015
56. Letter In Verse 4/13/2010
57. Little Trotty Wagtail 4/13/2010
58. Love 4/13/2010
59. Love Cannot Die 4/13/2010
60. Love Lives Beyond The Tomb 1/3/2003
61. Market Day 4/13/2010
62. Mary Bateman 4/13/2010
63. May 1/3/2003
64. Meet Me In The Green Glen 1/3/2003
65. Merry Maid 4/13/2010
66. Mouse's Nest 12/17/2014
67. Nature's Hymn To The Deity 4/13/2010
68. Night Wind 1/3/2003
69. Nobody Cometh To Woo 4/13/2010
70. November 1/3/2003
71. Now Is Past 4/13/2010
72. Patty Of The Vale 4/13/2010
73. Peggy 4/13/2010
74. Peggy's The Lady Of The Hall 4/13/2010
75. Pleasures Of Fancy 4/13/2010
76. Ploughman Singing 4/13/2010
77. Quail's Nest 4/13/2010
78. Remembrances 1/3/2003
79. Rural Morning 4/13/2010
80. Scandal 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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