John Clare
John Clare
John Clarewas an English poet, the son of a farm labourer, who came to be known for his celebratory representations of the English countryside and his lamentation of its disruption. His poetry underwent a major re-evaluation in the late 20th century, and he is now often considered to be among the most important 19th-century poets. His biographer Jonathan Bate states that Clare was "the greatest labouring-class poet that England has ever produced. No one has ever written more powerfully of...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth13 July 1793
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air; Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
He could not die when the trees were green, For he loved the time too well.
I am gennerally understood tho I do not use that awkward squad of pointings called commas colons semicolons etc.
I hid my love when young till I Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly; I hid my life to my despite Till I could not bear to look at light: I dare not gaze upon her face But left her memory in each place; Where'er I saw a wild flower lie I kissed and bade my love good-bye.
The thorn tree just began to bud And greening stained the sheltering hedge, An many a violet beside the wood Peeped blue between the withered sedge; The sun gleamed warm the bank beside, 'Twas pleasant wandering out a while Neath nestling bush to lonely hide, Or bend a musings o'er a stile.
So dull and dark are the November days. The lazy mist high up the evening curled, And now the morn quite hides in smoke and haze; The place we occupy seems all the world.
My fears are agitated to an extreme degree and the dread of death involves me in a stupor of chilling indisposition.
Old April wanes, and her last dewy morn Her death-bed steeps in tears; to hail the May New blooming blossoms neath the sun are born, And all poor April's charms are swept away.
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 pipe He dreams o'er troubles nearly ripe, Yet, winter's leisure to regale, Hopes better times, and sips his ale.
Wildness is my suiting scene.
I live here among the ignorant like a lost man in fact like one whom the rest seemes careless of having anything to do with—they hardly dare talk in my company for fear I should mention them in my writings and I find more pleasure in wandering the fields than in musing among my silent neighbours who are insensible to everything but toiling and talking of it and that to no purpose.
Ah, words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away...
I was Byron and Shakespeare formerly.
When trouble haunts me, need I sigh?No, rather smile away despair