From Helpston in rural Northamptonshire, John Clare was born in 1793. He is now regarded as the most important poet of the natural world from Britain. He wrote many poems, prose and letters about love, sex, corruption and politics, environmental and social change, poverty and folk life. Even in his 'madness', his talents were not diminished. Ronald Blythe, past President of the Clare Society, saw Clare as "... England's most articulate village voice".

Clare died, aged 71, in 1864.
“Men make a boast of pedigree as well might the descendants of Richard Turpin boast of theirs for both honours spring from robbery & spoilation – what was William the Conqueror but a robber by wholesale & what were his followers but high way men by his authority receiving tithes by their expertness at plunder for which Turpin (a more noble plunderer if absence from fear or dareing achievements…
Sweet bottle shaped flower of lushy red Born when the summer wakes her warmest breeze Among the meadows waving grasses spread Or neath the shade of hedge or clumping trees Bowing on slender stem thy heavy head In sweet delight I view thy summer bed & hark the drone of heavy humble bees Along thy honeed garden gailey led Down corn field striped balks & pasture leas Fond warmings of the soul that…
Do wild flowers love I think they do & often stooping down I hear them talk to shower and dew On many a lovely mound I often see thy fairy form In springs bee singing hours Light stepping on in fancy warm As love among the flowers Follow for daily #JohnClare postings #poetry #environment #truth #honesty
The bulrush bows in graceful art To kiss the rivers lesser weeds & flags in many a merry start Rustling whisper to the reeds Shall things inanimate agree To love unmoving thee & me Follow for daily #JohnClare postings #poetry #environment #truth #honesty
O for the pasture fields & fen When shall I see such rest agen I love the weeds along the fen More sweet then garden flowers Freedom haunts the humble glen That blest my happiest hours Here prisons injure health & me I love sweet freedom & the free Follow for daily #JohnClare postings #poetry #environment #truth #honesty
The finest flower beneath the sky & like to thee lives many a swain With Genius blest but like to thee So humble lowly mean & plain No one will notice them nor me So like to thee,they live unknown Wild weeds obscure—& like to thee Their sweets are sweet to them alone Follow for daily #JohnClare postings #poetry #environment #truth #honesty
Tall grows the nettle by the hedgeway side & bye the old barn end they shade the wall In sunshine nodding to the angry tide Of winds that winnows bye—these one & all Makes up the harmony of Spring—& all That passes feel a sudden love for flowers They look so green—& when the soft showers fall They grow so fast—Dock Burdocks Henbane—all Who loves not wild flowers bye the old stone wall Follow for…
O now the crimson east its fire streak burning Tempts me to wander neath the blushing morn Winding the zig zag lane turning & turning As winds the crooked fences wilderd thorn O wheres the eye can gaze upon the dawn That flushes yon blue sky of cloudless heaven & gilds the prospect round below—what eye Can look upon the beautys morn has given & look unmovd, sure neer a soul thats living The soul…
The fields now claim them where a motley crew Of old & young their daily tasks pursue The barleys beard is grey & wheat is brown & wakens toil betimes to leave the town The reapers leave their beds before the sun & gleaners follow in the toils begun To pick the littered ear the reaper leaves & glean in open fields among the sheaves Follow for daily #JohnClare postings #poetry #environment #truth…
Farewell to the cornfield & meadow so green Farewell to the white thorn & willow & Jean Farewell to the haunts O' her childhood & mine Where green banks had peace & my Jean looked divine Were parted & may be for ever we part Still Jeanie shall be the choice girl of my heart Farewell to the cornfield & meadow so green Farewell to the white thorn & willow & Jean The meadows will be just as green…
A Ploughmans skill at Classification after the Lineian arrangement ‘Go wipe your shoes’ says mistress shrew To Hodge who up for's dinner drew ‘'Tis'n't fitting that such hogs as you ‘Shou'd come into a house’ ‘Why not’ says hodge—‘if thats the case ‘I cant come in a better place ‘For surely there is no disgrace For hogs to herd wi' Sows Friend take my advice... Friend take my advice would you do…
As rests warm rapture rousd the rustics lay The thread bare ballad from each quavering tongue As ‘peggy bond’ or the ‘sweet month of may’ As how he joyd to hear each ‘good old song’ That on nights pausing ear did echo loud & strong The muse might sing too for he well did know The freaks & plays that harvest home doth end How the last load is crownd wi boughs & how Wi floating ribbons diznd at…
Among the tawny tasselled reed The ducks & ducklings float and feed With head oft dabbing in the flood They fish all day the weedy mud & tumbler-like are bobbing there Heels topsy-turvy in the air Then up and quack and down they go Heels over head again below Follow for daily #JohnClare postings #poetry #environment #truth #honesty Photo by my friend John Abbott
Farwell thou favorite spot farwell Since every efforts vain All I can do is still to tell Of thy delightful plain But that pro[v]es short—increasing years That did my youth presage Will now as each new day appears Bring on declining age Reflection pierces deadly keen While I the moral scan As are the changes of the green So is the life of man Youth brings age with fa ultering tongue That does the…
& what is Life an hour-glass on the run A mist retreating from the morning sun A busy bustling still repeated dream Its length a minutes pause a moments thought & happiness a bubble on the stream That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought What are vain Hopes the puffing gale of morn That of its charms divests the dewy lawn & robs each floweret of its gem & dies A cobweb hiding disappointments…
Love though it is not chill & cold But burning like eternal fire Is yet not of approaches bold Which gay dramatic tastes admire Oh timid love more fond than free In daring song is ill pourtrayed Where as in war the devotee By valour wins each captive maid Follow for daily #JohnClare postings #poetry #environment #truth #honesty
A green of all colours yellow brown & dark grey While the footpaths all darkly goes winding away Creeping onto a foot-brig that crosses a brook Or a gate or a stile & how rustic they look Some leaning so much that the maidens will go Lower down with their buckets & try to creep through There is nothing more sweet in the fields & the sun Than those dear little footpaths that oer the fields run…
Among the green bushes the songs of the thrushes Are answering each other in music & glee While the magpies & rooks in woods hedges near brooks Mount their Spring dwellings on every high tree There meet me at eve love we'll on grassy banks lean love & crop a white branch from the scented may tree Where the silver brook wimples & the rosy cheek dimples Sweet will the time of that courting hour be…
Then crooked stile with little steps that aid The climbing meets us & the pleasant grass & hedgerows old with arbours ready made For weariness to rest in pleasant shade Surround us & with ecstasy we pass Wild flower & insect tribes that ever mate With joy & dance from every step we take Follow for daily #JohnClare postings #poetry #environment #truth #honesty
Then thy starry gems & gold Admiration would unfold For what insect is't can vie With the lovley Butterflye Lo! the arching heav'nly bow Does all his dyes on thee bestow Crimson Blue & watry Green Mixd with Azure shade between These are thine—thou first in place Queen of all the insect race Follow for daily #JohnClare postings #poetry #environment #truth #honesty
Some of John Clare’s prose on flies. "These little window dwellers in cottages and halls were always entertaining to me after dancing in the window all day from sunrise to sunset they would sip of the tea drink of the beer & eat of the sugar & be welcome all summer long They look like things of mind or fairies & seem pleased or dull as the weather permits In many clean cottages & genteel houses…
Grasshoppers go in many a thumming spring & now to stalks of tasseled sow-grass cling That shakes & swees awhile but still keeps straight While arching oxeye doubles with his weight Next on the cat tail grass with farther bound He springs that bends until they touch the ground Follow for daily #JohnClare postings #poetry #environment #truth #honesty image by my friend Carry Akroyd
I hate to see mans strength employ’d To desolate the wood To see a favourite tree destroy’d That has for ages stood To see the stript oak stretch’d its length A mournful thought the scene attends Those seem thats left still green in strength To mourn their fallen friends Follow for daily #JohnClare postings #poetry #environment #truth #honesty
On the 24th July 1830 Sophia was born to Patty and John - the family then consisted then of 6 children, Anna (10), Eliza (8 ), Freddy (6) John (4), William (2), and baby Sophia. Grandfather Parker (70) and Ann (66) made up the crowded household of 10 all living in the tenement in Woodgate (a quarter of what is now called ‘Clare Cottage’). What a struggle it must have been, seeking to support such…
The daisy button tipped wi' dew Green like the grass was sleeping On every thing 'neath heaven blue In moonlight dew was weeping In dark wood sung the Nightingale The moon shone round above me My arms were clasped round Mary Gale My dearest do you love me Her head a woodbine wet wi' dew Held in the moonlight sleeping & two in one together grew Wi' daisy buds a weeping O' Mary Gale sweet Mary Gale…