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 Maid Of Ocram, Or, Lord Gregory 4/13/2010
8. The Lass With The Delicate Air 4/13/2010
9. The Frightened Ploughman 4/13/2010
10. Sunday Dip 4/13/2010
11. The Shepherds Calendar - July (2nd Version) 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. Ploughman Singing 4/13/2010
19. Nobody Cometh To Woo 4/13/2010
20. The Beautiful Stranger 4/13/2010
21. Nature's Hymn To The Deity 4/13/2010
22. Scandal 4/13/2010
23. The Cellar Door 4/13/2010
24. The Crow Sat On The Willow 4/13/2010
25. The Shepherds Calendar - July 4/13/2010
26. Patty Of The Vale 4/13/2010
27. The Shepherd's Calendar - October 4/13/2010
28. The Shepherds Calendar - November 4/13/2010
29. Mary Bateman 4/13/2010
30. Song #3 4/13/2010
31. The Shepherd's Calendar - August 4/13/2010
32. The Lout 4/13/2010
33. Graves Of Infants 4/13/2010
34. Pleasures Of Fancy 4/13/2010
35. From 4/13/2010
36. The Shepherd's Calendar - September 4/13/2010
37. Stonepit 4/13/2010
38. Now Is Past 4/13/2010
39. Song #2 4/13/2010
40. The Vanities Of Life 4/13/2010

Comments about John Clare

  • Chuck Taylor (8/21/2018 3:48:00 PM)

    It's almost as if he was a modern poet, Clare, in poems like The Badger, . He doesn't use hollow rotund words, but gets to the nitty-gritty.

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  • Roxanne Herrera Roxanne Herrera (6/11/2018 3:38:00 PM)

    https:m.poemhunter.compoemi-cant-be-sad check out my poems please ill really appreciate it.

  • Veronica-Mae (6/10/2018 6:59:00 AM)

    Oh dear - this poet (I am told) did not post any poems in the last 14 days! !

  • rahil (3/31/2018 12:31:00 AM)

    Add a comment dream

  • Donique thompson (3/28/2018 6:23:00 AM)

    Love your poems

  • ghcgv (1/9/2018 3:38:00 AM)

    he was a rubbish poet

  • Imogen c (12/12/2007 5:04:00 AM)

    his poems to me are only surpassed by shakespeare. i think that he is one of the very best english poets and the fact that he wasnt some weathly little snob who sat lazzaly scralling out his veiws on the world like alot of the classic english poets were makes him so much more importaint. he actualy experinced a bloody awfull life and it seems that it makes him more credable and more real i mean when he talks about suffering he realy knows what he is talking about he was a awsome guy and yeah

  • Tod Mcgrath (12/5/2005 2:58:00 PM)

    John was a living legend although I thought he herded animals better than he wrote poems but that just my opinion and am a big fan of his labouring background this guy was a living legend but ermm he died...... Ermmm yeh go john! and as im a keen cannibal i would love to have a bite ov him if he was still alive but now hes dead the meat doesnt taste as fresh...... TOD MCGRATH......

  • Louise Birkhead (3/13/2005 2:07:00 PM)


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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