John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

121. Schoolboys In Winter 1/3/2003
122. Summer Images 1/3/2003
123. Wood Rides 1/3/2003
124. Dewdrops 4/13/2010
125. To A Fallen Elm 1/3/2003
126. The Shepherd's Tree 1/3/2003
127. Song's Eternity 1/3/2003
128. Night Wind 1/3/2003
129. Meet Me In The Green Glen 1/3/2003
130. Summer Evening 1/3/2003
131. A World For Love 4/13/2010
132. The Dying Child 1/3/2003
133. The Maple Tree 1/3/2003
134. The Flood 1/3/2003
135. Insects 1/3/2003
136. The Shepherds Calendar - December 4/13/2010
137. Hen's Nest 1/3/2003
138. Evening 1/3/2003
139. Christmass 1/13/2003
140. Decay 4/13/2010
141. Death 4/13/2010
142. The Fallen Elm 1/3/2003
143. Where She Told Her Love 1/3/2003
144. The Vixen 1/3/2003
145. Remembrances 1/3/2003
146. To John Clare 1/3/2003
147. Early Nightingale 1/3/2003
148. A Vision 4/13/2010
149. The Skylark 1/3/2003
150. Love Lives Beyond The Tomb 1/3/2003
151. Written In Northampton County Asylum 1/3/2003
152. The Old Year 1/3/2003
153. The Thrush's Nest 1/3/2003
154. The Secret 1/3/2003
155. Ballad 4/13/2010
156. Christmas 1/3/2003
157. Evening Primrose 1/3/2003
158. Autumn Birds 1/3/2003
159. The Winter's Spring 1/3/2003
160. To Mary 1/3/2003
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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