Section: «Poems»
Verse (ancient Greek ὁ στίχος — row, structure), a term in versification used in several meanings:
artistic speech organized by division into rhythmically commensurate segments; poetry in the narrow sense; in particular, it implies the properties of versification of a particular tradition ("antique verse", "Akhmatova's verse", etc.);
a line of poetic text organized according to a certain rhythmic pattern ("My uncle of the most honest rules").
The Poet's Death
The world is taking little heedAnd plods from day to day:The vulgar flourish like a weed,The learned pass away.We miss him on the summer pathThe..
© John Clare
The Peasant Poet
He loved the brook's soft sound,The swallow swimming by.He loved the daisy-covered ground,The cloud-bedappled sky.To him the dismal storm appearedThe..
© John Clare
The Old Year
The Old Year's gone awayTo nothingness and night:We cannot find him all the dayNor hear him in the night:He left no footstep, mark or placeIn either..
© John Clare
The Old Cottagers
The little cottage stood alone, the prideOf solitude surrounded every side.Bean fields in blossom almost reached the wall;A garden with its hawthorn..
© John Clare
The Nightingale's Nest
Up this green woodland-ride let’s softly rove,And list the nightingale - she dwells just here.Hush ! let the wood-gate softly clap, for fearThe noise..
© John Clare
The Mores
Far spread the moorey ground a level sceneBespread with rush and one eternal greenThat never felt the rage of blundering ploughThough centurys..
© John Clare
The Maple Tree
The Maple with its tassell flowers of greenThat turns to red, a stag horn shapèd seedJust spreading out its scallopped leaves is seen,Of yellowish..
© John Clare
The Maid Of Ocram, Or, Lord Gregory
Gay was the Maid of OcramAs lady eer might beEre she did venture past a maidTo love Lord Gregory.Fair was the Maid of OcramAnd shining like the..
© John Clare
The Maid Of Jerusalem
Maid of Jerusalem, by the Dead Sea,I wandered all sorrowing thinking of thee,--Thy city in ruins, thy kindred deplored,All fallen and lost by the..
© John Clare
The Lout
The LoutRating: ★2.7♡AutoplayFor Sunday's play he never makes excuse,But plays at taw, and buys his Spanish juice.Hard as his toil, and ever slow to..
© John Clare
The Lass With The Delicate Air
Timid and smiling, beautiful and shy,She drops her head at every passer bye.Afraid of praise she hurries down the streetsAnd turns away from every..
© John Clare
The Landrail
How sweet and pleasant grows the wayThrough summer time againWhile Landrails call from day to dayAmid the grass and grainWe hear it in the weeding..
© John Clare
The Instinct Of Hope
Is there another world for this frail dustTo warm with life and be itself again?Something about me daily speaks there must,And why should instinct..
© John Clare
The Gipsy's Camp
How oft on Sundays, when I'd time to tramp,My rambles led me to a gipsy's camp,Where the real effigy of midnight hags,With tawny smoked flesh and..
© John Clare
The Frightened Ploughman
I went in the fields with the leisure I got,The stranger might smile but I heeded him not,The hovel was ready to screen from a shower,And the book in..
© John Clare
The Fox
The shepherd on his journey heard when nighHis dog among the bushes barking high;The ploughman ran and gave a hearty shout,He found a weary fox and..
© John Clare
The Flood
On Lolham Brigs in wild and lonely moodI've seen the winter floods their gambols playThrough each old arch that trembled while I stoodBent o'er its..
© John Clare
The Flitting
I've left my own old home of homes,Green fields and every pleasant place;The summer like a stranger comes,I pause and hardly know her face.I miss the..
© John Clare
The Firetail's Nest
'Tweet' pipes the robin as the cat creeps byHer nestling young that in the elderns lie,And then the bluecap tootles in its glee,Picking the flies..
© John Clare
The Fens
Wandering by the river's edge,I love to rustle through the sedgeAnd through the woods of reed to tearAlmost as high as bushes are.Yet, turning quick..
© John Clare
The Fear Of Flowers
The nodding oxeye bends before the wind,The woodbine quakes lest boys their flowers should find,And prickly dogrose spite of its arrayCan't dare the..
© John Clare
The Fallen Elm
Old elm that murmured in our chimney topThe sweetest anthem autumn ever madeAnd into mellow whispering calms would dropWhen showers fell on thy many..
© John Clare
The Dying Child
He could not die when trees were green,For he loved the time too well.His little hands, when flowers were seen,Were held for the bluebell,As he was..
© John Clare
The Cuckoo
The cuckoo, like a hawk in flight,With narrow pointed wingsWhews o'er our heads - soon out of sightAnd as she flies she sings:And darting down the..
© John Clare
The Crow Sat On The Willow
The crow sat on the willow treeA-lifting up his wings,And glossy was his coat to see,And loud the ploughman sings,'I love my love because I knowThe..
© John Clare