John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

161. Thou Flower Of Summer 4/13/2010
162. To A Fallen Elm 1/3/2003
163. To Anna Three Years Old 4/13/2010
164. To John Clare 1/3/2003
165. To John Milton 4/13/2010
166. To Mary 1/3/2003
167. To Napoleon 4/13/2010
168. Turkeys 4/13/2010
169. What Is Life? 1/3/2003
170. Where She Told Her Love 1/3/2003
171. Wild Bees 4/13/2010
172. Winter Walk 4/13/2010
173. Wood Rides 1/3/2003
174. Written In Northampton County Asylum 1/3/2003
175. Young Lambs 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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