#john clare
Text
I am the self-consumer of my woes―
"I Am!" by John Clare
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
Je suis – mais ce que je suis, nul ne le sait ou s'en soucie ;
Mes amis m'abandonnent comme un souvenir fané par le temps :
N'ayant que mes fidèles tourments pour seule compagnie –
Ils surgissent et disparaissent, visiteurs absents
Telles les affres fantomatiques d'un amour tumultueux inassouvi –
Quoi qu'il en soit, je suis et je vis – telles des vapeurs dans le vent.
Je tends vers un lieu où jamais l'homme n'a pu aller,
Un pays où nulle femme n'a jamais pleuré ni souri,
Je pourrais y vivre avec le Dieu qui m'a créé,
Et dormir insouciant comme dans l'enfance j'ai dormi,
Ni incommodant ni incommodé, je reposerai,
Sur un lit d'herbe tendre – sous la voûte du ciel étoilé.
John Clare, Je Suis
#john clare#poésie#poésie anglaise#littérature#littérature anglaise#récitation#mot#mots#recueil#français#citation#citations#xixème siècle
1 note
·
View note
Text
John Clare, from April [1821]
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
What is Life?
"And what is Life? —
An hour-glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun."
– John Clare
65 notes
·
View notes
Text
Is there another world for this frail dust
To warm with life and be itself again?
Something about me daily speaks there must,
And why should instinct nourish hopes in vain?
'Tis nature's prophesy that such will be,
And everything seems struggling to explain
The close sealed volume of its mystery.
Time wandering onward keeps its usual pace
As seeming anxious of eternity,
To meet that calm and find a resting place.
E'en the small violet feels a future power
And waits each year renewing blooms to bring,
And surely man is no inferior flower
To die unworthy of a second spring?
John Clare
0 notes
Text
How can I forget 💕
#john clare#poetry#cutout#love#love poetry#love poem#scrapbook#scrapbooking#journal#journaling#notebook#noteblr
0 notes
Text
Hares at Play
by John Clare
The birds are gone to bed, the cows are still,
And sheep lie panting on each old mole-hill;
And underneath the willow's gray-green bough,
Like toil a-resting, lies the fallow plough.
The timid hares throw daylight fears away
On the lane's road to dust and dance and play,
Then dabble in the grain by naught deterred
To lick the dew-fall from the barley's beard;
Then out they sturt again and round the hill
Like happy thoughts dance, squat, and loiter still,
Till milking maidens in the early morn
Jingle their yokes and sturt them in the corn;
Through well-known beaten paths each nimbling hare
Sturts quick as fear, and seeks its hidden lair.
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
We’re wed to [...] eternity.
— John Clare, My Gothic Heart, (2023)
8 notes
·
View notes
Text
I Am!
BY JOHN CLARE
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.
3 notes
·
View notes
Text
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.
— John Clare, I am!
0 notes
Text
They hurl with savage force their stick and stone/And no-one cares and still the strife goes on.
John Clare
0 notes
Text
1 note
·
View note
Text
The Old Year
The Old Year's gone away
To nothingness and night:
We cannot find him all the day
Nor hear him in the night:
He left no footstep, mark or place
In either shade or sun:
The last year he'd a neighbour's face,
In this he's known by none.
All nothing everywhere:
Mists we on mornings see
Have more of substance when they're here
And more of form than he.
He was a friend by every fire,
In every cot and hall--
A guest to every heart's desire,
And now he's nought at all.
Old papers thrown away,
Old garments cast aside,
The talk of yesterday,
Are things identified;
But time once torn away
No voices can recall:
The eve of New Year's Day
Left the Old Year lost to all.
By John Clare
#john clare#old year#new year#photo steven shames#old picture#bronx boy#life in a tough neighbourhood#pinterest.com
52 notes
·
View notes
Text
That voice is gone with every pleasing tone
Loved but one moment and the next alone
#john clare#how can i forget#love#love poem#love poetry#scrapbook#scrapbooking#journal#journaling#notebook#writing#handwritten
5 notes
·
View notes
Text
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.
1 note
·
View note
Last Seen Blogs
alive-out-of-spite
I am the chaos
fox-is-fandumb
The NRA are terrorists
wilcze-kudly
The weilin gremilin
itsmargobaybee
Let Me Be Odd
nanorelationship
Relationship Advise