John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

121. The Lass With The Delicate Air 4/13/2010
122. The Lout 4/13/2010
123. The Maid Of Jerusalem 4/13/2010
124. The Maid Of Ocram, Or, Lord Gregory 4/13/2010
125. The Maple Tree 1/3/2003
126. The Mores 1/3/2003
127. The Nightingale's Nest 1/3/2003
128. The Old Cottagers 4/13/2010
129. The Old Year 1/3/2003
130. The Peasant Poet 4/13/2010
131. The Poet's Death 4/13/2010
132. The Sailor-Boy 4/13/2010
133. The Secret 1/3/2003
134. The Shepherds Calendar - April 4/13/2010
135. The Shepherd's Calendar - August 4/13/2010
136. The Shepherds Calendar - February - A Thaw 4/13/2010
137. The Shepherds Calendar - January- Winters Day 4/13/2010
138. The Shepherds Calendar - July 4/13/2010
139. The Shepherds Calendar - July (2nd Version) 4/13/2010
140. The Shepherd's Calendar - June 4/13/2010
141. The Shepherds Calendar - March 4/13/2010
142. The Shepherds Calendar - May 4/13/2010
143. The Shepherds Calendar - November 4/13/2010
144. The Shepherd's Calendar - October 4/13/2010
145. The Shepherd's Calendar - September 4/13/2010
146. The Shepherd's Tree 1/3/2003
147. The Skylark 1/3/2003
148. The Sleep Of Spring 4/13/2010
149. The Soldier 4/13/2010
150. The Stranger 4/13/2010
151. The Swallow 4/13/2010
152. The Thrush's Nest 1/3/2003
153. The Tramp 4/13/2010
154. The Vanities Of Life 4/13/2010
155. The Vixen 1/3/2003
156. The Winter's Come 4/13/2010
157. The Winter's Spring 1/3/2003
158. The Wood-Cutter's Night Song 4/13/2010
159. The Yellowhammer 4/13/2010
160. Thou Flower Of Summer 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 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]