John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

41. The Vanities Of Life 4/13/2010
42. Field Path 4/13/2010
43. The Shepherds Calendar - January- Winters Day 4/13/2010
44. Peggy 4/13/2010
45. Quail's Nest 4/13/2010
46. Signs Of Winter 4/13/2010
47. To Napoleon 4/13/2010
48. The Gipsy's Camp 4/13/2010
49. The Sailor-Boy 4/13/2010
50. To John Milton 4/13/2010
51. To Anna Three Years Old 4/13/2010
52. The Old Cottagers 4/13/2010
53. Song #4 4/13/2010
54. Dyke Side 4/13/2010
55. Farewell And Defiance To Love 4/13/2010
56. Sport In The Meadows 4/13/2010
57. Rural Morning 4/13/2010
58. The Shepherds Calendar - February - A Thaw 4/13/2010
59. The Cross Roads; Or, The Haymaker's Story 4/13/2010
60. The Shepherds Calendar - November 4/13/2010
61. Turkeys 4/13/2010
62. Farmer's Boy 4/13/2010
63. Graves Of Infants 4/13/2010
64. Impromptu 4/13/2010
65. Secret Love 4/13/2010
66. The Stranger 4/13/2010
67. Earth's Eternity 4/13/2010
68. The Shepherds Calendar - May 4/13/2010
69. Fragment 4/13/2010
70. Hodge 4/13/2010
71. The Firetail's Nest 4/13/2010
72. The Soldier 4/13/2010
73. Invitation To Eternity 4/13/2010
74. Song #3 4/13/2010
75. The Swallow 4/13/2010
76. The Ants 4/13/2010
77. The Wood-Cutter's Night Song 4/13/2010
78. The Fens 4/13/2010
79. Love Cannot Die 4/13/2010
80. Thou Flower Of Summer 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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