To A Brook

    Sweet brook! I've met thee many a summer's day,
    And ventured fearless in thy shallow flood,
    And rambled oft thy sweet unwearied way,
    'Neath willows cool that on thy margin stood,
    With crowds of partners in my artless play--
    Grasshopper, beetle, bee, and butterfly--
    That frisked about as though in merry mood
    To see their old companion sporting by.
    Sweet brook! life's glories then were mine and thine;
    Shade clothed thy spring that now doth naked lie;
    On thy white glistening sand the sweet woodbine
    Darkened and dipt its flowers. I mark, and sigh,
    And muse o'er troubles since we met the last,
    Like two fond friends whose happiness is past.

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 Maiden's Welcome

John Clare, Simple Poetry

Song. "There Was A Time, When Love's Young Flowers"

John Clare, Simple Poetry

A Sigh.

John Clare, Simple Poetry

Song. "Mary, The Day Of Love's Pleasures Has Been"

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 A Bower.

Three times, sweet hawthorn! I have met thy bower,
And thou hast gain'd my love, and I do feel
An aching pain to leave thee: every flower
Around thee opening doth new charms reveal,
And binds my fondness stronger.--Wild wood bower,
In memory's calendar thou'rt treasur'd up:
And should we meet in some remoter hour,
When all thy bloom to winter-winds shall droop;
Ah, in life's winter, many a day to come,
Should my grey wrinkles pass thy spot of ground,
And find it bare--with thee no longer crown'd;
Within the woodman's faggot torn from hence,
Or chopt by hedgers up for yonder fence;
Ah, should I chance by thee as then to come,
I'll look upon thy nakedness with pain,
And, as I view thy desolated doom,
In fancy's eye I'll fetch thy shade again:
And of this lo...

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Remembrances

Summer's pleasures they are gone like to visions every one,
And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on.
I tried to call them back, but unbidden they are gone
Far away from heart and eye and forever far away.
Dear heart, and can it be that such raptures meet decay?
I thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I lay,
I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout and play
On its bank at "clink and bandy," "chock" and "taw" and "ducking stone,"
Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her own
Like a ruin of the past all alone.

When I used to lie and sing by old Eastwell's boiling spring,
When I used to tie the willow boughs together for a swing,
And fish with crooked pins and thread and never catch a thing,
With heart just like a feather, now as heav...

John Clare

The Brook-Song

        Little brook! Little brook!
        You have such a happy look -
Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and
        curve and crook -
    And your ripples, one and one,
    Reach each other's hands and run
        Like laughing little children in the sun!

    Little brook, sing to me:
    Sing about a bumblebee
That tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbled
            mumblingly,
    Because he wet the film
    Of his wings, and had to swim,
        While the water-bugs raced round and
            laughed at him!

    Little brook-sing a song
    Of a leaf that sailed along
Down the golden-braided centre of your current
        swift and strong,
    And a dragon-fly that lit
    On the tilting rim of it,
        And ro...

James Whitcomb Riley

Holywell.

Nature, thou accept the song,
To thee the simple lines belong,
Inspir'd as brushing hill and dell
I stroll'd the way to Holywell.
Though 'neath young April's watery sky,
The sun gleam'd warm, and roads were dry;
And though the valleys, bush, and tree
Still naked stood, yet on the lea
A flush of green, and fresh'ning glow
In melting patches 'gan to show
That swelling buds would soon again
In summer's livery bless the plain.
The thrushes too 'gan clear their throats,
And got by heart some two 'r three notes
Of their intended summer-song,
To cheer me as I stroll'd along.
The wild heath triumph'd in its scenes
Of goss and ling's perpetual greens;
And just to say that spring was come,
The violet left its woodland home,
And, hermit-like, from sto...

John Clare

The Wild-Flower Nosegay.

In life's first years as on a mother's breast,
When Nature nurs'd me in her flowery pride,
I cull'd her bounty, such as seemed best,
And made my garlands by some hedge-row side:
With pleasing eagerness the mind reclaims
From black oblivion's shroud such artless scenes,
And cons the calendar of childish names
With simple joy, when manhood intervenes.

From the sweet time that spring's young thrills are born,
And golden catkins deck the sallow tree,
Till summer's blue-caps blossom mid the corn,
And autumn's ragwort yellows o'er the lea,
I roam'd the fields about, a happy child,
And bound my posies up with rushy ties,
And laugh'd and mutter'd o'er my visions wild,
Bred in the brain of pleasure's ecstacies.

Crimp-frilled daisy, bright bronze buttercup,<...

John Clare

Summer Evening.

How pleasant, when the heat of day is bye,
And seething dew empurples round the hill
Of the horizon, sweeping with the eye
In easy circles, wander where we will!
While o'er the meadow's little fluttering rill
The twittering sunbeam weakens cool and dim,
And busy hum of flies is hush'd and still.
How sweet the walks by hedge-row bushes seem,
On this side wavy grass, on that the stream;
While dog-rose, woodbine, and the privet-spike,
On the young gales their rural sweetness teem,
With yellow flag-flowers rustling in the dyke;
Each mingling into each, a ceaseless charm
To every heart that nature's sweets can warm.

John Clare