Now musing o'er the changing scene Farmers behind the tavern screen Collect; with elbows idly press'd On hob, reclines the corner's guest, Reading the news to mark again The bankrupt lists or price of grain. Puffing the while his red-tipt… — John Clare Copy Share Image
While snow the window-panes bedim, The fire curls up a sunny charm, Where, creaming o'er the pitcher's rim, The flowering ale is set to warm; Mirth, full of joy as summer bees, Sits there, its pleasures to impart, And children,… — John Clare Copy Share Image
I ne'er was struck before that hour with love so sudden and so sweet. Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower and stole… — John Clare Copy Share
“ I Am! I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer… — John Clare Copy Share
“I long for scenes where man hath never trod A place where woman never smiled or wept There to abide with my Creator, God,… — John Clare Copy Share
This world has suns, but they are overcast;This world has sweets, but they're of ling'ring bloom;Life still expects, and empty falls at last;Warm Hope… — John Clare Copy Share
Forgive me if, in friendship’s way, I offer thee a wreath of May… [N]ourished by the dews of heaven… So I have Ivy placed… — John Clare Copy Share
Yet simple souls, their faith it knows no stint: Things least to be believed are most preferred. All counterfeits, as from truth's sacred mint,… — John Clare Copy Share
To-morrow comes, true copy of to-day,And empty shadow of what is to be;Yet cheated Hope on future still depends,And ends but only when our… — John Clare Copy Share
“Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rude And fled to the silence of sweet solitude.” — John Clare Copy Share
The snow has left the cottage top; The thatch moss grows in brighter green; And eaves in quick succession drop, Where grinning icicles have… — John Clare Copy Share
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But… — John Clare Copy Share
Summer is a prodigal of joy. The grass Swarms with delighted insects as I pass, And crowds of grasshoppers at every stride Jump out… — John Clare Copy Share
“Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But… — John Clare Copy Share
