John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

161. Evening Primrose 1/3/2003
162. I Hid My Love 1/3/2003
163. Christmas 1/3/2003
164. The Secret 1/3/2003
165. The Nightingale's Nest 1/3/2003
166. Farewell 1/3/2003
167. Emmonsail's Heath In Winter 1/3/2003
168. Badger 1/3/2003
169. Autumn 1/3/2003
170. What Is Life? 1/3/2003
171. An Invite, To Eternity 1/3/2003
172. Summer 1/3/2003
173. All Nature Has A Feeling 1/3/2003
174. First Love 1/3/2003
175. I Am 1/3/2003

Comments about John Clare

  • ghcgv (1/9/2018 3:38:00 AM)

    he was a rubbish poet

    1 person liked.
    12 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)


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 Dying Child

He could not die when trees were green,
For he loved the time too well.
His little hands, when flowers were seen,
Were held for the bluebell,
As he was carried o'er the green.

His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;
He knew those children of the spring:
When he was well and on the lea

[Report Error]