John Clare

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

John Clare Poems

1. In Summer Showers A Skreeking Noise Is Heard 5/21/2015
2. June 3/26/2015
3. The Badger 1/17/2015
4. Mouse's Nest 12/17/2014
5. The Cottager 4/13/2010
6. The Maid Of Ocram, Or, Lord Gregory 4/13/2010
7. The Lout 4/13/2010
8. The Lass With The Delicate Air 4/13/2010
9. The Frightened Ploughman 4/13/2010
10. Sunday Dip 4/13/2010
11. Farm Breakfast 4/13/2010
12. The Shepherds Calendar - July (2nd Version) 4/13/2010
13. Idle Fame 4/13/2010
14. The Maid Of Jerusalem 4/13/2010
15. Spear Thistle 4/13/2010
16. Merry Maid 4/13/2010
17. House Or Window Flies 4/13/2010
18. Letter In Verse 4/13/2010
19. Nature's Hymn To The Deity 4/13/2010
20. Nobody Cometh To Woo 4/13/2010
21. The Old Cottagers 4/13/2010
22. The Beautiful Stranger 4/13/2010
23. Peggy's The Lady Of The Hall 4/13/2010
24. Ploughman Singing 4/13/2010
25. The Crow Sat On The Willow 4/13/2010
26. The Sailor-Boy 4/13/2010
27. Scandal 4/13/2010
28. The Shepherds Calendar - July 4/13/2010
29. The Cellar Door 4/13/2010
30. Market Day 4/13/2010
31. Song #3 4/13/2010
32. The Shepherd's Calendar - October 4/13/2010
33. Song #5 4/13/2010
34. The Fear Of Flowers 4/13/2010
35. Patty Of The Vale 4/13/2010
36. The Shepherds Calendar - November 4/13/2010
37. Graves Of Infants 4/13/2010
38. Firwood 4/13/2010
39. Song #1 4/13/2010
40. Mary Bateman 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 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

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