Forgive me if, in friendship’s way, I offer thee a wreath of May.... [N]ourished by the dews of heaven.... So I have… — John Clare Copy Share Image
The snow has left the cottage top; The thatch moss grows in brighter green; And eaves in quick succession drop, Where grinning… — John Clare Copy Share Image
And fairy month of waking mirth From whom our joys ensue Thou early gladder of the earth Thrice welcome here anew With… — John Clare Copy Share Image
Now summer is in flower and natures hum Is never silent round her sultry bloom Insects as small as dust are never… — John Clare Copy Share Image
The thorn tree just began to bud And greening stained the sheltering hedge, An many a violet beside the wood Peeped blue… — 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 Image
“ 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 Image
“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 Image
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 Image
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 Image
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 Image
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 Image
“Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rude And fled to the silence of sweet solitude.” — John Clare Copy Share Image
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 Image
