First Love (by: John Clare (1793 - 1864)) Are flowers the winter's choice Is love's bed always snow She seemed to hear my silent voice Not love appeals to know. continue reading
Flood, The (by: John Clare (1793 - 1864)) On Lolham Brigs in wild and lonely mood I've seen the winter floods their gambols play Through each old arch that trembled while I stood Bent o'er its wall to watch the dashing spray continue reading
I Am! Yet What I Am None Cares Or Knows (by: John Clare (1793 - 1864)) 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 tossed continue reading
I Hid My Love (by: John Clare (1793 - 1864)) I hid my love to my despite Till i could not bear to look at the light: I dare not gaze upon her face But left her memory in each place... continue reading
Sheperd's Tree, The (by: John Clare (1793 - 1864)) Huge elm, with rifted trunk all notched and scarred, Like to a warrior's destiny! I love continue reading
Thrush's Nest, The (by: John Clare (1793 - 1864)) 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 continue reading
To Mary (by: John Clare (1793 - 1864)) At morning, noon, and night. I think and speak of other things To keep my mind at rest, But still to thee my memory clings... continue reading
What Is Life? (by: John Clare (1793 - 1864)) When stripped of its disguise, A thing to be desired it cannot be; Since everything that meets our foolish eyes Gives proof sufficient of its vanity. continue reading
Winter Winds Cold And Blea (by: John Clare (1793 - 1864)) How sweet can courting prove, How can I kiss my love Muffled in hat and glove From the chill air? Quaking beneath the grove, What love is there! continue reading
Written In Northampton Assylum (by: John Clare (1793 - 1864)) I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows? My friends forsake me like a memory lost. I am the self-consumer of my woes; They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. And yet I am—I live—though I am toss'd continue reading
