John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

1. Dyke Side 4/13/2010
2. In Summer Showers A Skreeking Noise Is Heard 5/21/2015
3. The Universal Epitaph 10/20/2015
4. June 3/26/2015
5. The Sailor-Boy 4/13/2010
6. The Shepherds Calendar - July (2nd Version) 4/13/2010
7. The Maid Of Jerusalem 4/13/2010
8. The Maid Of Ocram, Or, Lord Gregory 4/13/2010
9. The Frightened Ploughman 4/13/2010
10. The Lout 4/13/2010
11. Spear Thistle 4/13/2010
12. Farm Breakfast 4/13/2010
13. To Anna Three Years Old 4/13/2010
14. The Shepherds Calendar - November 4/13/2010
15. Hodge 4/13/2010
16. House Or Window Flies 4/13/2010
17. Peggy's The Lady Of The Hall 4/13/2010
18. Bonny Lassie O! 4/13/2010
19. The Lass With The Delicate Air 4/13/2010
20. Christmass 1/13/2003
21. Wood Rides 1/3/2003
22. Braggart 4/13/2010
23. Ploughman Singing 4/13/2010
24. Peggy 4/13/2010
25. Idle Fame 4/13/2010
26. Impromptu 4/13/2010
27. Stonepit 4/13/2010
28. Sunday Dip 4/13/2010
29. Scandal 4/13/2010
30. The Cellar Door 4/13/2010
31. The Fens 4/13/2010
32. The Shepherd's Calendar - October 4/13/2010
33. The Shepherd's Calendar - August 4/13/2010
34. To John Milton 4/13/2010
35. To Napoleon 4/13/2010
36. The Winter's Come 4/13/2010
37. The Shepherd's Calendar - September 4/13/2010
38. Song #3 4/13/2010
39. From 4/13/2010
40. Country Letter 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

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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