John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

81. Scandal 4/13/2010
82. Schoolboys In Winter 1/3/2003
83. Secret Love 4/13/2010
84. Signs Of Winter 4/13/2010
85. Snow Storm 4/13/2010
86. Song #1 4/13/2010
87. Song #2 4/13/2010
88. Song #3 4/13/2010
89. Song #4 4/13/2010
90. Song #5 4/13/2010
91. Song's Eternity 1/3/2003
92. Spear Thistle 4/13/2010
93. Sport In The Meadows 4/13/2010
94. Spring's Messengers 4/13/2010
95. Stonepit 4/13/2010
96. Sudden Shower 4/13/2010
97. Summer 1/3/2003
98. Summer Evening 1/3/2003
99. Summer Images 1/3/2003
100. Sunday Dip 4/13/2010
101. The Ants 4/13/2010
102. The Badger 1/17/2015
103. The Beautiful Stranger 4/13/2010
104. The Cellar Door 4/13/2010
105. The Cottager 4/13/2010
106. The Cross Roads; Or, The Haymaker's Story 4/13/2010
107. The Crow Sat On The Willow 4/13/2010
108. The Cuckoo 1/3/2003
109. The Dying Child 1/3/2003
110. The Fallen Elm 1/3/2003
111. The Fear Of Flowers 4/13/2010
112. The Fens 4/13/2010
113. The Firetail's Nest 4/13/2010
114. The Flitting 4/13/2010
115. The Flood 1/3/2003
116. The Fox 4/13/2010
117. The Frightened Ploughman 4/13/2010
118. The Gipsy's Camp 4/13/2010
119. The Instinct Of Hope 1/3/2003
120. The Landrail 1/3/2003
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 Thrush's Nest

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush
That overhung a molehill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound
With joy; and often, an intruding guest,
I watched her secret toil from day to day -
How true she warped the moss to form a nest,
And modelled it within with wood and clay;
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,

[Hata Bildir]