Song

I would not feign a single sigh
Nor weep a single tear for thee:
The soul within these orbs burns dry;
A desert spreads where love should be.
I would not be a worm to crawl
A writhing suppliant in thy way;
For love is life, is heaven, and all
The beams of an immortal day.

For sighs are idle things and vain,
And tears for idiots vainly fall.
I would not kiss thy face again
Nor round thy shining slippers crawl.
Love is the honey, not the bee,
Nor would I turn its sweets to gall
For all the beauty found in thee,
Thy lily neck, rose cheek, and all.

I would not feign a single tale
Thy kindness or thy love to seek;
Nor sigh for Jenny of the Vale,
Her ruby smile or rosy cheek.
I would not have a pain to own
For those dark curls and those bright eyes
A frowning lip, a heart of stone,
False love and folly I despise.

John Clare

John Clare was an English poet known for his celebrations of the English countryside and lamentation of its disruption. Born in Helpston, Northamptonshire, Clare was initially a farm laborer. His poetry is characterized by its natural imagery and rustic language. Despite periods of fame during his period, Clare spent the later part of his life in an asylum due to mental health issues. His works gained greater recognition posthumously. Clare's major poem collections include "Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery" and "The Shepherd's Calendar."

John Clare

The Widower's Lament.

John Clare, Simple Poetry

To The Rural Muse.

John Clare, Simple Poetry

Pleasures of Fancy

John Clare, Simple Poetry

Day-Break.

John Clare, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Adieu To My False Love Forever

    The week before Easter, the days long and clear,
    So bright shone the sun and so cool blew the air,
    I went in the meadow some flowers to find there,
    But the meadow would yield me no posies.

    The weather, like love, did deceitful appear,
    And I wandered alone when my sorrow was near,
    For the thorn that wounds deeply doth bide the whole year,
    When the bush it is naked of roses.

    I courted a girl that was handsome and gay,
    I thought her as constant and true as the day,
    Till she married for riches and said my love "Nay,"
    And so my poor heart got requited.

    I was bid to the bridal; I could not say "No:"
    The bridemen and maidens they made a fine show;
    I smiled like the rest but my heart it was low,
...

John Clare

Farewell And Defiance To Love

Love and thy vain employs, away
From this too oft deluded breast!
No longer will I court thy stay,
To be my bosom's teazing guest.
Thou treacherous medicine, reckoned pure,
Thou quackery of the harassed heart,
That kills what it pretends to cure,
Life's mountebank thou art.

With nostrums vain of boasted powers,
That, ta'en, a worse disorder leave;
An asp hid in a group of flowers,
That bites and stings when few perceive;
Thou mock-truce to the troubled mind,
Leading it more in sorrow's way,
Freedom, that leaves us more confined,
I bid thee hence away.

Dost taunt, and deem thy power beyond
The resolution reason gave?
Tut! Falsity hath snapt each bond,
That kept me once thy quiet slave,
And made thy snare a spider's thread,
W...

John Clare

Love Scorned By Pride

    O far is fled the winter wind,
    And far is fled the frost and snow,
    But the cold scorn on my love's brow
    Hath never yet prepared to go.

    More lasting than ten winters' wind,
    More cutting than ten weeks of frost,
    Is the chill frowning of thy mind,
    Where my poor heart was pledged and lost.

    I see thee taunting down the street,
    And by the frowning that I see
    I might have known it long ere now,
    Thy love was never meant for me.

    And had I known ere I began
    That love had been so hard to win,
    I would have filled my heart with pride,
    Nor left one hope to let love in.

    I would have wrapped it in my breast,
    And pinned it with a silver pin,
    Safe as a bird within its n...

John Clare

Song. "Dropt Here And There Upon The Flower"

Dropt here and there upon the flower
I love the dew to see,
For then returns the even's hour
That is so dear to me,
When silence reigns upon the plain,
And night hides all, or nearly;
For then I meet the smiles again
Of her I love so dearly.

O how I love yon dusky plains,
Though others there may be
As much belov'd by other swains,
But none so dear to me:
Their thorn-buds smell as sweet the while,
Their brooks may run as clearly;
But what are they without the smile
Of her I love so dearly.

In yonder bower the maid I've met,
Whom still I love to meet;
The dew-drops fall, the sun has set,
O evening thou art sweet!
Hope's eye fain breaks the misty glooms,
The time's expir'd, or nearly--
Ah, faithful still, and here she com...

John Clare

A Lover's Vows

Scenes of love and days of pleasure,
I must leave them all, lassie.
Scenes of love and hours of leisure,
All are gone for aye, lassie.
No more thy velvet-bordered dress
My fond and longing een shall bless,
Thou lily in the wilderness;
And who shall love thee then, lassie?
Long I've watched thy look so tender,
Often clasped thy waist so slender:
Heaven, in thine own love defend her,
God protect my own lassie.

By all the faith I've shown afore thee,
I'll swear by more than that, lassie:
By heaven and earth I'll still adore thee,
Though we should part for aye, lassie!
By thy infant years so loving,
By thy woman's love so moving,
That white breast thy goodness proving,
I'm thine for aye, through all, lassie!
By the sun that shines for eve...

John Clare

Love

Love, though it is not chill and cold,
But burning like eternal fire,
Is yet not of approaches bold,
Which gay dramatic tastes admire.
Oh timid love, more fond than free,
In daring song is ill pourtrayed,
Where, as in war, the devotee
By valour wins each captive maid;--

Where hearts are prest to hearts in glee,
As they could tell each other's mind;
Where ruby lips are kissed as free,
As flowers are by the summer wind.
No! gentle love, that timid dream,
With hopes and fears at foil and play,
Works like a skiff against the stream,
And thinking most finds least to say.

It lives in blushes and in sighs,
In hopes for which no words are found;
Thoughts dare not speak but in the eyes,
The tongue is left without a sound.
The pert and fo...

John Clare