John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

81. Schoolboys In Winter 1/3/2003
82. Secret Love 4/13/2010
83. Signs Of Winter 4/13/2010
84. Snow Storm 4/13/2010
85. Song #1 4/13/2010
86. Song #2 4/13/2010
87. Song #3 4/13/2010
88. Song #4 4/13/2010
89. Song #5 4/13/2010
90. Song's Eternity 1/3/2003
91. Spear Thistle 4/13/2010
92. Sport In The Meadows 4/13/2010
93. Spring's Messengers 4/13/2010
94. Stonepit 4/13/2010
95. Sudden Shower 4/13/2010
96. Summer 1/3/2003
97. Summer Evening 1/3/2003
98. Summer Images 1/3/2003
99. Sunday Dip 4/13/2010
100. The Ants 4/13/2010
101. The Badger 1/17/2015
102. The Beautiful Stranger 4/13/2010
103. The Cellar Door 4/13/2010
104. The Cottager 4/13/2010
105. The Cross Roads; Or, The Haymaker's Story 4/13/2010
106. The Crow Sat On The Willow 4/13/2010
107. The Cuckoo 1/3/2003
108. The Dying Child 1/3/2003
109. The Fallen Elm 1/3/2003
110. The Fear Of Flowers 4/13/2010
111. The Fens 4/13/2010
112. The Firetail's Nest 4/13/2010
113. The Flitting 4/13/2010
114. The Flood 1/3/2003
115. The Fox 4/13/2010
116. The Frightened Ploughman 4/13/2010
117. The Gipsy's Camp 4/13/2010
118. The Instinct Of Hope 1/3/2003
119. The Landrail 1/3/2003
120. The Lass With The Delicate Air 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--

[Report Error]