John Clare

John Clare

John Clare (13 July 1793 – 20 May 1864) was an English poet. The son of a farm labourer, he became known for his celebrations of the English countryside and sorrows at its disruptiБольше
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#hid2 мин. чтения

I Hid my Love

I hid my love when young till I Couldn't bear the buzzing of a fly; I hid my love 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 ...

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#clock-o-clay2 мин. чтения

Clock-O-Clay

In the cowslip pips I lie,
Hidden from the buzzing fly,
While green grass beneath me lies,
Pearled with dew like fishes' eyes,

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#the skylark2 мин. чтения

The Skylark

The rolls and harrows lie at rest beside The battered road; and spreading far and wide Above the russet clods, the corn is seen Sprouting its spiry points of tender green, Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake, Like some brown clod the harr...

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#december2 мин. чтения

December

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;

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#emmonsails1 мин. чтения

Emmonsails Heath in Winter

I love to see the old heath's withered
Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling,
While the old heron from the lonely
Starts slow and flaps its melancholy wing,

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#evening primrose1 мин. чтения

Evening Primrose

When once the sun sinks in the west,
And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast;
Almost as pale as moonbeams are,
Or its companionable star,

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#summer2 мин. чтения

Summer

Come we to the summer, to the summer we will come, For the woods are full of bluebells and the hedges full of bloom, And the crow is on the oak a-building of her nest, And love is burning diamonds in my true lover's breast; She sits beneath the wh...

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#hens nest2 мин. чтения

Hens Nest

Among the orchard weeds, from every search,
Snugly and sure, the old hen’s nest is made,
Who cackles every morning from her
To tell the servant girl new eggs are laid;

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#early nightingale1 мин. чтения

Early Nightingale

When first we hear the shy-come nightingales,
They seem to mutter o’er their songs in fear,
And, climb we e’er so soft the spinney rails,
All stops as if no bird was anywhere

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#the2 мин. чтения

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 carried o'er the green
His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee; He knew those children ...

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#the1 мин. чтения

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
And turns away from every smile she meets

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#the flood2 мин. чтения

The Flood

On Lolham Brigs in wild and lonely moodI've seen the winter floods their gambols
Through each old arch that trembled while I
Bent o'er its wall to watch the dashing
As their old stations would be washed

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