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."

July 13, 1793

May 20, 1864

English

John Clare

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'Tis Spring, My Love, 'Tis Spring

'T is Spring, my love, 'tis Spring,
And the birds begin to sing:
If 'twas Winter, left alone with you,
Your bonny form and face
Would make a Summer place,
And be the finest flower that ever grew.

'T is Spring, my love, 'tis Spring,
And the hazel catkins hing,
While the snowdrop has its little blebs of dew;
But that's not so white within
As your bosom's hidden skin--
That sweetest of all flowers that ever grew.

The sun arose from bed,
All strewn with roses red,
But the brightest and the loveliest crimson place
Is not so fresh and fair,
Or so sweet beyond compare,
As thy blushing, ever smiling, happy face.

I love Spring's early flowers,
And their bloom in its first hours,
But they never half so bright or lovely seem
As ...

John Clare

A Copse In Winter.

Shades though you're leafless, save the bramble-spear
Whose weather-beaten leaves, of purple stain,
In hardy stubbornness cling all the year
To their old thorns, till Spring buds new again;
Shades, still I love you better than the plain,
For here I find the earliest flowers that blow,
While on the bare blea bank do yet remain
Old winter's traces, little heaps of snow.
Beneath your ashen roots, primroses grow
From dead grass tufts and matted moss, once more;
Sweet beds of violets dare again be seen
In their deep purple pride; and, gay display'd,
The crow-flowers, creeping from the naked green,
Add early beauties to your sheltering shade.

John Clare

A Lair At Noon.

The hawthorn gently stopt the sun, beneath,
The ash above its quiv'ring shadows spread,
And downy bents, that to the air did wreathe,
Bow'd 'neath my pressure in an easy bed;
The water whirled round each stunted nook,
And sweet the splashings on the ear did swim
Of fly-bit cattle gulshing in the brook,
Nibbling the grasses on the fountain's brim:
The little minnows, driv'n from their retreat,
Still sought the shelving bank to shun the heat.
I fain had slept, but flies would buzz around;
I fain had looked calmly on the scene,
But the sweet snug retreat my search had found
Waken'd the Muse to sing the woody screen.

John Clare

A Look At The Heavens.

O who can witness with a careless eye
The countless lamps that light an evening sky,
And not be struck with wonder at the sight!
To think what mighty Power must there abound,
That burns each spangle with a steady light,
And guides each hanging world its rolling round.
What multitudes my misty eye have found;
The countless numbers speak a Deity:
In numbers numberless the skies are crown'd,
And still they're nothing which my sight can see,
When science, searching through her aiding glass,
In seeming blanks to me can millions trace;
While millions more, that every heart impress,
Still brighten up throughout eternal space.
O Power Almighty! whence these beings shine,
All wisdom's lost in comprehending thine.

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

A Pastoral.

Surely Lucy love returns,
Though her meaning's not reveal'd;
Surely love her bosom burns,
Which her coyness keeps conceal'd:
Else what means that flushing cheek,
When with her I chance to be?
And those looks, that almost speak
A secret warmth of love for me?

Would she, where she valued not,
Give such proofs of sweet esteem?
Think what flowers for me she's got--
What can this but fondness seem?
When, to try their pleasing powers,
Swains for her cull every grove,--
When she takes my meaner flowers,
What can guide the choice but love?

Was not love seen yesternight,
When two sheep had rambled out?
Who but Lucy set them right?
The token told, without a doubt.
When others stare, she turns and frowns;
When I but glance, a smile I ...

John Clare

A Sigh, In A Play-Ground.

O happy spot! how much the sight of thee
Wakes the endearments of my infancy:
The very trees, through which the wild-winds sigh,
Seem whispering now some joys of youth gone by;
And each spot round, so sacred to my sight,
Hints at some former moment of delight.
Each object there still warmly seems to claim
Tender remembrance of some childish game;
Still on the slabs, before yon door that lie,
The top seems spinning in fond memory's eye;
And fancy's echo still yon field resounds
With noise of blind-man's buff, and fox-and-hounds.
Ah, as left rotting 'neath its mossy crown
The pile stands sacred o'er some past renown,
So thou, dear spot, though doubtless but to me,
Art sacred from the joys possess'd in thee,
That rose, and shone, and set--a sun's sojourn;
As...

John Clare

A Sigh.

Again freckled cowslips are gilding the plain,
And crow-flowers yellow again o'er the lea,
Again the speck'd throstle comes in with her strain,
And welcomes the spring--but no spring can I see.

I once hail'd the throstle, her singing begun,
And bath'd in spring's dew when her flower met my eyes;
I sought for the kingcup all cloth'd in the sun,
And gather'd my cowslips, and joy'd in the prize.

They brought nature's spring, and they comforted me,
They wip'd winter off, and did pleasure restore;
But, alas! in their tidings a change can I see,
Fate's added a postscript, "Thy spring is no more."

John Clare

A Specimen of Clare's rough drafts

A Specimen of Clare's rough drafts

In a huge cloud of mountain hue
The sun sets dark nor shudders through
One single beam to shine again
Tis night already in the lane

The settled clouds in ridges lie
And some swell mountains calm and high

Clouds rack and drive before the wind
In shapes and forms of every kind
Like waves that rise without the roars
And rocks that guard untrodden shores
Now castles pass majestic bye
And ships in peaceful havens lie
These gone ten thousand shapes ensue
For ever beautiful and new

The scattered clouds lie calm and still
And day throws gold on every hill
Their thousand heads in glorys run
As each were worlds and owned a sun
The rime it clings to every thing
It beards the early buds of spri...

John Clare

A Valentine

Here's a valentine nosegay for Mary,
Some of Spring's earliest flowers;
The ivy is green by the dairy,
And so are these laurels of ours.
Though the snow fell so deep and the winter was dreary,
The laurels are green and the sparrows are cheery.

The snowdrops in bunches grow under the rose,
And aconites under the lilac, like fairies;
The best in the bunches for Mary I chose,
Their looks are as sweet and as simple as Mary's.
The one will make Spring in my verses so bare,
The other set off as a braid thy dark hair.

Pale primroses, too, at the old parlour end,
Have bloomed all the winter 'midst snows cold and dreary,
Where the lavender-cotton kept off the cold wind,
Now to shine in my valentine nosegay for Mary;
And appear in my verses all Summer, and b...

John Clare

A Wish.

Be where I may when Death brings in his bill,
Demanding payment for life's ling'ring debt,
Or in my native village nestling still,
Or tracing scenes I've never known as yet,
O let one wish, go where I will, be mine,--
To turn me back and wander home to die,
'Mong nearest friends my latest breath resign,
And in the church-yard with my kindred lie,
'Neath the thick-shaded sycamore's decay,
Its broad leaves trembling to the breeze of day:
To see its shadow o'er my ashes wave,
How soothing will it be, while, hovering near,
My unseen spirit haunts its daisied grave,
Pausing on scenes in life once lov'd so dear.

John Clare

A World For Love

Oh, the world is all too rude for thee, with much ado and care;
Oh, this world is but a rude world, and hurts a thing so fair;
Was there a nook in which the world had never been to sear,
That place would prove a paradise when thou and Love were near.

And there to pluck the blackberry, and there to reach the sloe,
How joyously and happily would Love thy partner go;
Then rest when weary on a bank, where not a grassy blade
Had eer been bent by Trouble's feet, and Love thy pillow made.

For Summer would be ever green, though sloes were in their prime,
And Winter smile his frowns to Spring, in beauty's happy clime;
And months would come, and months would go, and all in sunny mood,
And everything inspired by thee grow beautifully good.

And there to make a cot unknown t...

John Clare

Absence.

"What ails my love, where can he be?
He never broke a vow,
Though twice the clock's reminded me
That he's deceiv'd me now.
Through some bad girl, I well know that,
Poor Peggy's love's forgot:"
Thus sigh'd a lass, as down she sat
On the appointed spot.

The night was gathering dark and deep,
But absent was the swain;
The dews on many a flower did weep,
But Peggy wept in vain:
And every noise that meets her ear,
And fancy of her eye,
Hope instant wipes away the tear,
And paints the shepherd nigh.

"Ah, now he comes, my cheek glows hot,
His dog barks to the sheep!"
Alas, her own dog lay forgot,
Loud whimpering in his sleep.
"He rustles down the wood-path park,
The boughs hung o'er it stirr'd!"--
Alas, her Rover's dreaming b...

John Clare

Address To My Father, On His Receiving An Easy Chair From The Right Hon. Lady--------.

Calm resignation meets a happy end;
And Providence, long-trusted, brings a friend.
God's will be done, be patient and be good;
Elisha was, and ravens brought him food:
And so wast thou, my father,--fate's decree
Doom'd many evils should encompass thee;
And, like Elisha, though it met thee late,
Patience unwearied did not vainly wait.
Thou hast, my father, long been us'd to pine,
And patient borne thy pain; great pain was thine.
Thou hast submitted, ah, and thou hast known
The roughest storms that life has ever blown,
Yet met them like a lamb: thou wert resign'd,
And though thou pray'dst a better place to find,
'Twas nought presumptuous--meekly wouldst thou crave,
When pains rack'd sore, some easement in the grave;
To lay thy aching body down in peace,
Whe...

John Clare

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

Adieu!

"Adieu, my love, adieu!
Be constant and be true
As the daisies gemmed with dew,
Bonny maid."
The cows their thirst were slaking,
Trees the playful winds were shaking;
Sweet songs the birds were making
In the shade.

The moss upon the tree
Was as green as green could be,
The clover on the lea
Ruddy glowed;
Leaves were silver with the dew,
Where the tall sowthistles grew,
And I bade the maid adieu
On the road.

Then I took myself to sea,
While the little chiming bee
Sung his ballad on the lea,
Humming sweet;
And the red-winged butterfly
Was sailing through the sky,
Skimming up and bouncing by
Near my feet.

I left the little birds,
And sweet lowing of the herds,
And couldn't find out words,
Do...

John Clare

After Reading In A Letter Proposals For Building A Cottage.

Beside a runnel build my shed,
With stubbles cover'd o'er;
Let broad oaks o'er its chimney spread,
And grass-plats grace the door.

The door may open with a string,
So that it closes tight;
And locks would be a wanted thing,
To keep out thieves at night.

A little garden, not too fine,
Inclose with painted pales;
And woodbines, round the cot to twine,
Pin to the wall with nails.

Let hazels grow, and spindling sedge,
Bent bowering over-head;
Dig old man's beard from woodland hedge,
To twine a summer shade.

Beside the threshold sods provide,
And build a summer seat;
Plant sweet-briar bushes by its side,
And flowers that blossom sweet.

I love the sparrow's ways to watch
Upon the cotter's sheds,
So here and...

John Clare

Among The Green Bushes

Among the green bushes the songs of the thrushes
Are answering each other in music and glee,
While the magpies and rooks, in woods, hedges, near brooks,
Mount their Spring dwellings on every high tree.
There meet me at eve, love, we'll on grassy banks lean love,
And crop a white branch from the scented may tree,
Where the silver brook wimples and the rosy cheek dimples,
Sweet will the time of that courting hour be.

We'll notice wild flowers, love, that grow by thorn bowers, love,
Though sinful to crop them now beaded with dew;
The violet is thine, love, the primrose is mine, love,
To Spring and each other so blooming and true.
With dewdrops all beaded, the feather grass seeded,
The cloud mountains turn to dark woods in the sky;
The daisy bud closes, while sleep th...

John Clare

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