John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

1. In Summer Showers A Skreeking Noise Is Heard 5/21/2015
2. The Universal Epitaph 10/20/2015
3. June 3/26/2015
4. The Badger 1/17/2015
5. Mouse's Nest 12/17/2014
6. The Cottager 4/13/2010
7. The Lout 4/13/2010
8. The Maid Of Ocram, Or, Lord Gregory 4/13/2010
9. The Lass With The Delicate Air 4/13/2010
10. The Frightened Ploughman 4/13/2010
11. Sunday Dip 4/13/2010
12. Farm Breakfast 4/13/2010
13. The Maid Of Jerusalem 4/13/2010
14. Spear Thistle 4/13/2010
15. Merry Maid 4/13/2010
16. Peggy's The Lady Of The Hall 4/13/2010
17. House Or Window Flies 4/13/2010
18. Impromptu 4/13/2010
19. Ploughman Singing 4/13/2010
20. Nobody Cometh To Woo 4/13/2010
21. Letter In Verse 4/13/2010
22. Nature's Hymn To The Deity 4/13/2010
23. Scandal 4/13/2010
24. The Cellar Door 4/13/2010
25. The Crow Sat On The Willow 4/13/2010
26. Market Day 4/13/2010
27. The Shepherds Calendar - July 4/13/2010
28. Patty Of The Vale 4/13/2010
29. The Shepherd's Calendar - October 4/13/2010
30. Song #5 4/13/2010
31. The Shepherds Calendar - November 4/13/2010
32. Mary Bateman 4/13/2010
33. The Fear Of Flowers 4/13/2010
34. Song #3 4/13/2010
35. The Shepherds Calendar - July (2nd Version) 4/13/2010
36. Song #1 4/13/2010
37. Pleasures Of Fancy 4/13/2010
38. In Hilly-Wood 4/13/2010
39. From 4/13/2010
40. The Shepherd's Calendar - September 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,

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