The Tomb.

Once musing o'er an old effaced stone,
Longing to know whose dust it did conceal,
I anxious ponder'd o'er what might reveal,
And sought the seeming date with weeds o'ergrown;
But that prov'd fruitless--both the date and name
Had been for ages in oblivion thrown.
The dim remains of sculptur'd ornament
Gave proof sufficient 'twas reward for fame:
This did my searching view so much torment,
That Time I question'd to expose the same;
But soon a check--"And what is it to thee
Whose dust lies here?--since thou wilt quickly be
Forgot like him:--then Time shall bid thee go
To heaven's pure bliss, or hell's tormenting woe."

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 Arbour.

John Clare, Simple Poetry

To A Brook

John Clare, Simple Poetry

To A Red Clover Blossom.

John Clare, Simple Poetry

English

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

To The Memory Of John Keats.

The World, its hopes and fears, have pass'd away;
No more its trifling thou shalt feel or see;
Thy hopes are ripening in a brighter day,
While these left buds thy monument shall be.
When Rancour's aims have past in nought away,
Enlarging specks discern'd in more than thee,
And beauties 'minishing which few display, -
When these are past, true child of Poesy,
Thou shalt survive - Ah, while a being dwells,
With soul, in Nature's joys, to warm like thine,
With eye to view her fascinating spells,
And dream entranced o'er each form divine,
Thy worth, Enthusiast, shall be cherish'd here, -
Thy name with him shall linger, and be dear.

John Clare

The Obliterate Tomb

    "More than half my life long
Did they weigh me falsely, to my bitter wrong,
But they all have shrunk away into the silence
    Like a lost song.

    "And the day has dawned and come
For forgiveness, when the past may hold it dumb
On the once reverberate words of hatred uttered
    Half in delirium . . .

    "With folded lips and hands
They lie and wait what next the Will commands,
And doubtless think, if think they can: 'Let discord
    Sink with Life's sands!'

    "By these late years their names,
Their virtues, their hereditary claims,
May be as near defacement at their grave-place
    As are their fames."

    Such thoughts bechanced to seize
A traveller's mind a man of memories -
As he set foot within the western city

Thomas Hardy

Memory

I would not that my memory all should die,
And pass away with every common lot:
I would not that my humble dust should lie
In quite a strange and unfrequented spot,
By all unheeded and by all forgot,
With nothing save the heedless winds to sigh,
And nothing but the dewy morn to weep
About my grave, far hid from the world's eye:
I fain would have some friend to wander nigh
And find a path to where my ashes sleep--
Not the cold heart that merely passes by,
To read who lies beneath, but such as keep
Past memories warm with deeds of other years,
And pay to friendship some few friendly tears.

John Clare

Helpstone Church-Yard.

What makes me love thee now, thou dreary scene,
And see in each swell'd heap a peaceful bed?
I well remember that the time has been,
To walk a church-yard when I us'd to dread;
And shudder'd, as I read upon the stone
Of well-known friends and next-door-neighbours gone.
But then I knew no cloudy cares of life,
Where ne'er a sunbeam comes to light me thorough;
A stranger then to this world's storms and strife,
Where ne'er a charm is met to lull my sorrow:
I then was blest, and had not eyes to see
Life's future change, and Fate's severe to-morrow;
When all those ills and pains should compass me,
With no hope left but what I meet in thee.

John Clare

To Time.

In Fancy's eye, what an extended span,
Time, hoary herald, has been stretch'd by thee:
Vain to conceive where thy dark burst began,
Thou birthless, boundless, vast immensity!
Vain all conceptions of weak-minded man
Thee to unravel from thy mystery!--
In mortal wisdom, thou'st already ran
A circled travel of eternity;
Still, but a moment of thy mighty plan
Seems yet unwound, from what thy age shall see,
Consuming Tyrant of all mortal kind!--
And what thou art, and what thou art to be,
Is known to none, but that Immortal Mind
Who reigns alone superior to thee.

John Clare

On Death.

O life, thy name to me's a galling sound,
A sound I fain would wish to breathe no more;
One only peace for me my hopes have found,
When thy existence and wild race is o'er;
When Death, with one, heals every other wound,
And lays my aching head in the cold ground.
O happy hour! I only wish to have
Another moment's gasp, and then the grave.
I only wish for one departing sigh,
A welcome farewel take of all, and die.
Thou'st given me little, world, for thanks' return,
Thou tempst me little with thee still to 'bide:
One only cause in leaving thee I mourn,--
That I had e'er been born, nor in the cradle died.

John Clare