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|
|169.||What Is Life?||1/3/2003|
|170.||Where She Told Her Love||1/3/2003|
|174.||Written In Northampton County Asylum||1/3/2003|
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 ...
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