John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

41. In Hilly-Wood 4/13/2010
42. Pleasures Of Fancy 4/13/2010
43. From 4/13/2010
44. The Shepherd's Calendar - September 4/13/2010
45. Stonepit 4/13/2010
46. Grasshoppers 4/13/2010
47. Now Is Past 4/13/2010
48. Firwood 4/13/2010
49. Spear Thistle 4/13/2010
50. The Vanities Of Life 4/13/2010
51. Love 4/13/2010
52. Song #2 4/13/2010
53. Fragment 4/13/2010
54. Field Path 4/13/2010
55. The Shepherds Calendar - January- Winters Day 4/13/2010
56. Sudden Shower 4/13/2010
57. Peggy 4/13/2010
58. Invitation To Eternity 4/13/2010
59. Quail's Nest 4/13/2010
60. Signs Of Winter 4/13/2010
61. The Gipsy's Camp 4/13/2010
62. To John Milton 4/13/2010
63. To Anna Three Years Old 4/13/2010
64. Song #4 4/13/2010
65. Dyke Side 4/13/2010
66. Farewell And Defiance To Love 4/13/2010
67. Sport In The Meadows 4/13/2010
68. Rural Morning 4/13/2010
69. The Shepherds Calendar - February - A Thaw 4/13/2010
70. The Cross Roads; Or, The Haymaker's Story 4/13/2010
71. Turkeys 4/13/2010
72. Farmer's Boy 4/13/2010
73. The Shepherds Calendar - April 4/13/2010
74. Secret Love 4/13/2010
75. The Stranger 4/13/2010
76. Earth's Eternity 4/13/2010
77. The Shepherds Calendar - May 4/13/2010
78. Hodge 4/13/2010
79. Winter Walk 4/13/2010
80. The Firetail's Nest 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 Shepherd's Tree

Huge elm, with rifted trunk all notched and scarred,
Like to a warrior's destiny! I love
To stretch me often on thy shadowed sward,
And hear the laugh of summer leaves above;
Or on thy buttressed roots to sit, and lean
In careless attitude, and there reflect
On times and deeds and darings that have been -
Old castaways, now swallowed in neglect, -
While thou art towering in thy strength of heart,

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