John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

161. Thou Flower Of Summer 4/13/2010
162. To A Fallen Elm 1/3/2003
163. To Anna Three Years Old 4/13/2010
164. To John Clare 1/3/2003
165. To John Milton 4/13/2010
166. To Mary 1/3/2003
167. To Napoleon 4/13/2010
168. Turkeys 4/13/2010
169. What Is Life? 1/3/2003
170. Where She Told Her Love 1/3/2003
171. Wild Bees 4/13/2010
172. Winter Walk 4/13/2010
173. Wood Rides 1/3/2003
174. Written In Northampton County Asylum 1/3/2003
175. Young Lambs 4/13/2010

Comments about John Clare

  • ghcgv (1/9/2018 3:38:00 AM)

    he was a rubbish poet

    1 person liked.
    7 person did not like.
  • 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)

    JOHN CLARE FOR PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES! ! ! !

Best Poem of John Clare

First Love

I ne'er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.

And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start --
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood ...

Read the full of First Love

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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