John Clare Quotes That Will Inspire You to Live Your Best Life

1. And 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 minute’s pause, a moment’s thought;And happiness?—A bubble on the stream,That in the act of seizing shrinks to nought. Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery

2. Crowded places, I shunned them as noises too rudeAnd fled to the silence of sweet solitude. Poems Chiefly from Manuscript

3. First LoveI ne’er was struck before that hour With love so sudden and so sweet, Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower And stole my heart away complete. My face turned pale as deadly pale, My legs refused to walk away, And when she looked, what could I ail? My life and all seemed turned to clay. And then my blood rushed to my face And took my eyesight quite away, The trees and bushes round the placeSeemed midnight at noonday. I could not see a single thing, Words from my eyes did start— They spoke as chords do from the string, And blood burnt round my heart. Are flowers the winter’s choice? Is love’s bed always snow? She seemed to hear my silent voice, Not love's appeals to know.I never saw so sweet a face As that I stood before. My heart has left its dwelling-place And can return no more. Poems Chiefly from Manuscript

4. Hill tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun, And the rivers we're eying burn to gold as they run; Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air; Whoever looks round sees Eternity there. Poems Chiefly from Manuscript

5. I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed "I Am": The Selected Poetry of John Clare

6. I am—yet what I am none cares or knows; My friends forsake me like a memory lost: I am the self-consumer of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems; Even the dearest that I loved the best Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest. "I Am": The Selected Poetry of John Clare

7. 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 of my woes— They rise and vanish in oblivious host, Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems; Even the dearest that I loved the best Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest. I long for scenes where man hath never trod A place where woman never smiled or wept There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Untroubling and untroubled where I lie The grass below—above the vaulted sky. "I Am": The Selected Poetry of John Clare

8. I found the poems in the fields,And only wrote them down. The Later Poems, 1837-1864: Volumes I and II

9. I hid my love when young till ICouldn't bear the buzzing of a fly;I hid my life to my despiteTill I could not bear to look at light:I dare not gaze upon her faceBut left her memory in each place;Where'er I saw a wild flower lieI kissed and bade my love good-bye. Poems Chiefly from Manuscript

10. I long for scenes where man hath never trod A place where woman never smiled or wept There to abide with my Creator, God, And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept, Untroubling and untroubled where I lie The grass below—above the vaulted sky. The Later Poems, 1837-1864: Volumes I and II

11. I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,And yet thou are not there;I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,And press the common air. The Later Poems, 1837-1864: Volumes I and II

12. In crime and enmity they lie Who sin and tell us love can die, Who say to us in slander's breath That love belongs to sin and death. Poems Chiefly from Manuscript

13. Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dreams, Where there is neither sense of life or joys, But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems; Even the dearest that I loved the best Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest. "I Am": The Selected Poetry of John Clare

14. Invitation to EternitySay, wilt thou go with me, sweet maid,Say, maiden, wilt thou go with meThrough the valley-depths of shade, Of bright and dark obscurity; Where the path has lost its way, Where the sun forgets the day, Where there's nor light nor life to see, Sweet maiden, wilt thou go with me? Where stones will turn to flooding streams, Where plains will rise like ocean's waves, Where life will fade like visioned dreams And darkness darken into caves, Say, maiden, wilt thou go with meThrough this sad non-identity Where parents live and are forgot, And sisters live and know us not? Say, maiden, wilt thou go with me In this strange death of life to be, To live in death and be the same,Without this life or home or name, At once to be and not to be— That was and is not—yet to see Things pass like shadows, and the skyAbove, below, around us lie? The land of shadows wilt thou trace,Nor look nor know each other's face;The present marred with reason gone,And past and present both as one? Say, maiden, can thy life be led To join the living and the dead? Then trace thy footsteps on with me: We are wed to one eternity. Poems Chiefly from Manuscript

15. Language has not the power to speak what love inditesThe soul lies buried in the Ink that writes The Later Poems, 1837-1864: Volumes I and II

16. O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away Poems Chiefly from Manuscript

17. SolitudeThere is a charm in Solitude that cheersA feeling that the world knows nothing ofA green delight the wounded mind endearsAfter the hustling world is broken offWhose whole delight was crime at good to scoffGreen solitude his prison pleasure yieldsThe bitch fox heeds him not -- birds seem to laughHe lives the Crusoe of his lonely fieldsWhich dark green oaks his noontide leisure shields John Clare: Selected Poetry and Prose