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The Shepherd's Calendar
The Shepherd's Calendar with Village Stories and Other Poems. 1827. John Clare's third published poetry collection.
272 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1824
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About the author
John Clare
315 books108 followersJohn Clare was an English poet, in his time commonly known as "the Northamptonshire Peasant Poet", born the son of a farm labourer at Helpston (which, at the time of his birth, was in the Soke of Peterborough, which itself was part of Northamptonshire) near Peterborough. His poetry underwent a major re-evaluation in the late 20th century and he is often now considered to be one of the most important 19th-century poets.
For other authors with this name see: psychotherapist and artist John Clare, history educator John D. Clare and John Clare.
For other authors with this name see: psychotherapist and artist John Clare, history educator John D. Clare and John Clare.
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Displaying 1 - 11 of 11 reviews
October 2, 2020
(This review is for the Phoenix 60p paperback edition of ‘The Shepherd’s Calendar’ by John Clare - a short anthology of four extracts from the former and a selection of his other poems).
Although Clare is only classed as a minor Romantic poet of the early nineteenth century, his writing contains strong elements of Keats, Blake and Hardy in his celebration of the natural world and the passage of the seasons.
A self-educated man, Clare’s life was one of continual poverty and odd-job labouring, eventuating in physical and mental breakdown. Despite spending his later years in an asylum, Clare continued to compose his verse and his body of work attests to his sensitivity and keen powers of observation of rural life and people.
Although Clare is only classed as a minor Romantic poet of the early nineteenth century, his writing contains strong elements of Keats, Blake and Hardy in his celebration of the natural world and the passage of the seasons.
A self-educated man, Clare’s life was one of continual poverty and odd-job labouring, eventuating in physical and mental breakdown. Despite spending his later years in an asylum, Clare continued to compose his verse and his body of work attests to his sensitivity and keen powers of observation of rural life and people.
March 25, 2014
What to say about the Shepherds Calendar. Well, it will always be on my reading shelf. You finish and start again, reading each month as it happens, letting it sink into your bones. I spent uite a bit of my child hood visiting family in the fens around Peterborough. We past through the village of Helpston, where Clare lived,regularly. My Aunt & Uncle's house was named Clock-o-clay after Clare's term for the ladybird. Clare was also finding that things were changing for the worst in his pre-industrial landscape which didn't help the black dog in his head, and its this aspect of him that i find really interesting and recognise in myself.
December 30, 2024
It feels timeless, but of course it's not. Clare's post-modern description of country life before machinery and agricultural modernisation is written to be a romanticised view of the English countryside. And it absolutely is!
July 14, 2016
I have never read another poet who captures the infinite in the minutest detail as Clare does in his observations of village life, animals, and nature herself through the seasons.
January 15, 2021
My favorite poem from this collection is Remembrances;
Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every one
And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on
I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone
Far away from heart and eye and for ever far away
Dear heart and can it be that such raptures meet decay
I thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I lay
I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout and play
On its bank at 'clink and bandy' 'chock' and 'taw' and
ducking stone
Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her own
Like a ruin of the past all alone
When I used to lie and sing by old eastwells boiling spring
When I used to tie the willow boughs together for a 'swing'
And fish with crooked pins and thread and never catch a
thing
With heart just like a feather-now as heavy as a stone
When beneath old lea close oak I the bottom branches broke
To make our harvest cart like so many working folk
And then to cut a straw at the brook to have a soak
O I never dreamed of parting or that trouble had a sting
Or that pleasures like a flock of birds would ever take to
wing
Leaving nothing but a little naked spring
When jumping time away on old cross berry way
And eating awes like sugar plumbs ere they had lost the may
And skipping like a leveret before the peep of day
On the rolly polly up and downs of pleasant swordy well
When in round oaks narrow lane as the south got black again
We sought the hollow ash that was shelter from the rain
With our pockets full of peas we had stolen from the grain
How delicious was the dinner time on such a showry day
O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away
The ancient pulpit trees and the play
When for school oer 'little field' with its brook and wooden
brig
Where I swaggered like a man though I was not half so big
While I held my little plough though twas but a willow twig
And drove my team along made of nothing but a name
'Gee hep' and 'hoit' and 'woi'-O I never call to mind
These pleasant names of places but I leave a sigh behind
While I see the little mouldywharps hang sweeing to the wind
On the only aged willow that in all the field remains
And nature hides her face where theyre sweeing in their
chains
And in a silent murmuring complains
Here was commons for the hills where they seek for
freedom still
Though every commons gone and though traps are set to kill
The little homeless miners-O it turns my bosom chill
When I think of old 'sneap green' puddocks nook and hilly
snow
Where bramble bushes grew and the daisy gemmed in dew
And the hills of silken grass like to cushions to the view
When we threw the pissmire crumbs when we's nothing
else to do
All leveled like a desert by the never weary plough
All vanished like the sun where that cloud is passing now
All settled here for ever on its brow
I never thought that joys would run away from boys
Or that boys would change their minds and forsake such
summer joys
But alack I never dreamed that the world had other toys
To petrify first feelings like the fable into stone
Till I found the pleasure past and a winter come at last
Then the fields were sudden bare and the sky got overcast
And boyhoods pleasing haunts like a blossom in the blast
Was shrivelled to a withered weed and trampled down and
done
Till vanished was the morning spring and set that summer
sun
And winter fought her battle strife and won
By Langley bush I roam but the bush hath left its hill
On cowper green I stray tis a desert strange and chill
And spreading lea close oak ere decay had penned its will
To the axe of the spoiler and self interest fell a prey
And cross berry way and old round oaks narrow lane
With its hollow trees like pulpits I shall never see again
Inclosure like a Buonaparte let not a thing remain
It levelled every bush and tree and levelled every hill
And hung the moles for traitors-though the brook is
running still
It runs a naked brook cold and chill
O had I known as then joy had left the paths of men
I had watched her night and day besure and never slept agen
And when she turned to go O I'd caught her mantle then
And wooed her like a lover by my lonely side to stay
Aye knelt and worshipped on as love in beautys bower
And clung upon her smiles as a bee upon her flower
And gave her heart my poesys all cropt in a sunny hour
As keepsakes and pledges to fade away
But love never heeded to treasure up the may
So it went the comon road with decay
Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every one
And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on
I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone
Far away from heart and eye and for ever far away
Dear heart and can it be that such raptures meet decay
I thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I lay
I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout and play
On its bank at 'clink and bandy' 'chock' and 'taw' and
ducking stone
Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her own
Like a ruin of the past all alone
When I used to lie and sing by old eastwells boiling spring
When I used to tie the willow boughs together for a 'swing'
And fish with crooked pins and thread and never catch a
thing
With heart just like a feather-now as heavy as a stone
When beneath old lea close oak I the bottom branches broke
To make our harvest cart like so many working folk
And then to cut a straw at the brook to have a soak
O I never dreamed of parting or that trouble had a sting
Or that pleasures like a flock of birds would ever take to
wing
Leaving nothing but a little naked spring
When jumping time away on old cross berry way
And eating awes like sugar plumbs ere they had lost the may
And skipping like a leveret before the peep of day
On the rolly polly up and downs of pleasant swordy well
When in round oaks narrow lane as the south got black again
We sought the hollow ash that was shelter from the rain
With our pockets full of peas we had stolen from the grain
How delicious was the dinner time on such a showry day
O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away
The ancient pulpit trees and the play
When for school oer 'little field' with its brook and wooden
brig
Where I swaggered like a man though I was not half so big
While I held my little plough though twas but a willow twig
And drove my team along made of nothing but a name
'Gee hep' and 'hoit' and 'woi'-O I never call to mind
These pleasant names of places but I leave a sigh behind
While I see the little mouldywharps hang sweeing to the wind
On the only aged willow that in all the field remains
And nature hides her face where theyre sweeing in their
chains
And in a silent murmuring complains
Here was commons for the hills where they seek for
freedom still
Though every commons gone and though traps are set to kill
The little homeless miners-O it turns my bosom chill
When I think of old 'sneap green' puddocks nook and hilly
snow
Where bramble bushes grew and the daisy gemmed in dew
And the hills of silken grass like to cushions to the view
When we threw the pissmire crumbs when we's nothing
else to do
All leveled like a desert by the never weary plough
All vanished like the sun where that cloud is passing now
All settled here for ever on its brow
I never thought that joys would run away from boys
Or that boys would change their minds and forsake such
summer joys
But alack I never dreamed that the world had other toys
To petrify first feelings like the fable into stone
Till I found the pleasure past and a winter come at last
Then the fields were sudden bare and the sky got overcast
And boyhoods pleasing haunts like a blossom in the blast
Was shrivelled to a withered weed and trampled down and
done
Till vanished was the morning spring and set that summer
sun
And winter fought her battle strife and won
By Langley bush I roam but the bush hath left its hill
On cowper green I stray tis a desert strange and chill
And spreading lea close oak ere decay had penned its will
To the axe of the spoiler and self interest fell a prey
And cross berry way and old round oaks narrow lane
With its hollow trees like pulpits I shall never see again
Inclosure like a Buonaparte let not a thing remain
It levelled every bush and tree and levelled every hill
And hung the moles for traitors-though the brook is
running still
It runs a naked brook cold and chill
O had I known as then joy had left the paths of men
I had watched her night and day besure and never slept agen
And when she turned to go O I'd caught her mantle then
And wooed her like a lover by my lonely side to stay
Aye knelt and worshipped on as love in beautys bower
And clung upon her smiles as a bee upon her flower
And gave her heart my poesys all cropt in a sunny hour
As keepsakes and pledges to fade away
But love never heeded to treasure up the may
So it went the comon road with decay
August 12, 2022
I admit that I struggled to read this book but this was probably because it is some time since I read poetry written in the nineteenth century and I was unused to some of the different spellings used and sentence structures. Actually, I am not sure there were sentences at all because there were no full stops at all throughout the entire poem! So, I suppose the criticism I would make is with the editing of this lyrical poem rather than with John Clare’s beautiful writing. Certain words, which to me were blatantly obvious
were explained in foot notes, while others, which I couldn’t decode from the general sense of the words around were not. A fuller glossary at the end of the book would have been a useful addition to the book.
As for the poem itself , I would encourage anyone with an interest in the country life of nineteenth century England to read this. A lot has changed over two hundred years but there are still aspects of life, in the way that we respond to the natural world around us that stay constant and if John Clare was alive today and had written a similar poem based on contemporary life today, I would pick it out without hesitation.
were explained in foot notes, while others, which I couldn’t decode from the general sense of the words around were not. A fuller glossary at the end of the book would have been a useful addition to the book.
As for the poem itself , I would encourage anyone with an interest in the country life of nineteenth century England to read this. A lot has changed over two hundred years but there are still aspects of life, in the way that we respond to the natural world around us that stay constant and if John Clare was alive today and had written a similar poem based on contemporary life today, I would pick it out without hesitation.
February 6, 2024
from January
Now, musing o'er the changing scene,
Farmers behind the tavern-screen
Collect; - with elbow idly press'd
On hob, reclines the corner's gust,
Reading the news, to mark again
The bankrupt lists, or price of grain;
Or old Moore's annual prophecies
Of flooded fields and clouded skies;
Whose Almanac's thumb'd pages swarm
With frost and snow, and many a storm,
And wisdom, gossip'd from the stars,
Of politics and bloody wars. (11)
from March
He hears the wild geese gabble o'er his head;
Then, pleased with fancies in his musings bred,
He marks the figured forms in which they fly,
And pausing, follows with a wondering eye,
Likening their curious march, in curves or rows,
To every letter which his memory knows;
While, far above, the solitary crane
Swings lonely to unfrozen dykes again,
Cranking a jarring melancholy cry (61)
Now, musing o'er the changing scene,
Farmers behind the tavern-screen
Collect; - with elbow idly press'd
On hob, reclines the corner's gust,
Reading the news, to mark again
The bankrupt lists, or price of grain;
Or old Moore's annual prophecies
Of flooded fields and clouded skies;
Whose Almanac's thumb'd pages swarm
With frost and snow, and many a storm,
And wisdom, gossip'd from the stars,
Of politics and bloody wars. (11)
from March
He hears the wild geese gabble o'er his head;
Then, pleased with fancies in his musings bred,
He marks the figured forms in which they fly,
And pausing, follows with a wondering eye,
Likening their curious march, in curves or rows,
To every letter which his memory knows;
While, far above, the solitary crane
Swings lonely to unfrozen dykes again,
Cranking a jarring melancholy cry (61)
January 29, 2024
I have to be in the mood for long firm poetry. I really enjoy Clare's shorter poems but struggled with this a bit. He is at his best when describing nature and the countryside and these are the parts I loved. In other parts I found my attention wandering off. Maybe I will try again in the future?
March 5, 2015
A set of pastoral poems from the early 18th century, this collection features the well-earned observations of working-class poet John Clare. "The Shepherd's Calendar," which takes us through a village year, is the standout, collecting the seasons in a beautiful set of memories of the living landscape, with every bird, flower, and little harvest detail receiving its appropriate focus.
Clare always has the right word for the living things that surround him, and the collection does a wonderful job conjuring another place, with its own rhythms and holidays, sights and sounds. Even if the hagiography for the setting and childhood's carefree joys can be a little much (it feels like a nice snap of reality when the little buggers have to work the harvest), these verses are beautiful and worth reading in any season.
The rest of the book isn't as strong, falling more into bland pastoral visions, with stories of young love, lost romance and maidens learning their lessons. It's still fun to see the poems enmeshed in fields and holidays, the old bridges and stiles. Clare never loses his faculty for language, but my eyes certainly skimmed over a few of them.
Still, even at the end "To the Cowslip" is a nice, brief memento mori while "The Dream" is an evocative take on the Day of Judgment. The collection as a whole has its strengths, but you may not miss much if you pack it in after December calls "The Shepherd's Calendar" to an end.
Excerpts
January
I still see faces pale with dreads,
While mine could laugh at what is said;
See tears imagined woes supply,
While mine with real cares are dry.
Where are they gone?—the joys and fears,
The links, the life of other years?
I thought they twined around my heart
So close, that we could never part;
But Reason, like a winter’s day,
Nipp’d childhood’s visions all away,
Nor left behind one withering flower
To cherish in a lonely hour.
Memory may yet the themes repeat,
But Childhood’s heart hath ceased to beat
At tales, which Reason’s sterner lore
Turns like weak gossips from her door:
February
The snow has left the cottage top;
The thatch-moss grows in brighter green;
And eaves in quick succession drop,
Where grinning icicles have been;
Pit-patting with a pleasant noise
In tubs set by the cottage-door;
While ducks and geese, with happy joys,
Plung in the yard-pond brimming o’er.
February
Nature soon sickens of her joys,
And all is sad and dumb again,
Save merry shouts of sliding boys
About the frozen furrow’d plain.
The foddering-boy forgets his song,
And silent goes with folded arms;
And croodling shepherds bend alongk,
Crouching to the whizzing storms.
March
He hears the wild geese gabble o’er his head;
Then, pleased with fancies in his musings bred,
He marks the figured forms in which they fly,
And pausing, follows with a wondering eye,
Likening their curious march, in curves or rows,
To every letter which his memory knows:
October
Such are the pictures that October yields,
To please the poet as he walks the fields;
While Nature—like fair woman in decay,
Whom pale consumption hourly wastes away—
Upon her waning features, winter chill,
Wears dreams of beauty that seem lovely still.
Clare always has the right word for the living things that surround him, and the collection does a wonderful job conjuring another place, with its own rhythms and holidays, sights and sounds. Even if the hagiography for the setting and childhood's carefree joys can be a little much (it feels like a nice snap of reality when the little buggers have to work the harvest), these verses are beautiful and worth reading in any season.
The rest of the book isn't as strong, falling more into bland pastoral visions, with stories of young love, lost romance and maidens learning their lessons. It's still fun to see the poems enmeshed in fields and holidays, the old bridges and stiles. Clare never loses his faculty for language, but my eyes certainly skimmed over a few of them.
Still, even at the end "To the Cowslip" is a nice, brief memento mori while "The Dream" is an evocative take on the Day of Judgment. The collection as a whole has its strengths, but you may not miss much if you pack it in after December calls "The Shepherd's Calendar" to an end.
Excerpts
January
I still see faces pale with dreads,
While mine could laugh at what is said;
See tears imagined woes supply,
While mine with real cares are dry.
Where are they gone?—the joys and fears,
The links, the life of other years?
I thought they twined around my heart
So close, that we could never part;
But Reason, like a winter’s day,
Nipp’d childhood’s visions all away,
Nor left behind one withering flower
To cherish in a lonely hour.
Memory may yet the themes repeat,
But Childhood’s heart hath ceased to beat
At tales, which Reason’s sterner lore
Turns like weak gossips from her door:
February
The snow has left the cottage top;
The thatch-moss grows in brighter green;
And eaves in quick succession drop,
Where grinning icicles have been;
Pit-patting with a pleasant noise
In tubs set by the cottage-door;
While ducks and geese, with happy joys,
Plung in the yard-pond brimming o’er.
February
Nature soon sickens of her joys,
And all is sad and dumb again,
Save merry shouts of sliding boys
About the frozen furrow’d plain.
The foddering-boy forgets his song,
And silent goes with folded arms;
And croodling shepherds bend alongk,
Crouching to the whizzing storms.
March
He hears the wild geese gabble o’er his head;
Then, pleased with fancies in his musings bred,
He marks the figured forms in which they fly,
And pausing, follows with a wondering eye,
Likening their curious march, in curves or rows,
To every letter which his memory knows:
October
Such are the pictures that October yields,
To please the poet as he walks the fields;
While Nature—like fair woman in decay,
Whom pale consumption hourly wastes away—
Upon her waning features, winter chill,
Wears dreams of beauty that seem lovely still.
February 12, 2016
'The Shepherd's Calendar' is a set of pastoral poems from the early 1800s written by John Clare, a native of Helpston, near Peterborough in the English East Midlands. There is one poem for each month, varying in length from six to twenty pages, written mostly in rhyming couplets. Clare describes the weather and landscape for each month of the year and then gives a series of vignettes about animal, human and agricultural life in the month in question.
Clare was a keep observer of landscape, flora and fauna and had a knack for apt comparisons that makes his poetry particularly vivid. The East Midlands rural dialect comes through clearly, but to me, this just adds to the charm. I particularly enjoyed some of the archaic words he uses - one of the reasons I enjoy traditional folk songs too.
If you need a break from the sort of poetry that goes to great lengths to describe the details of the poet's emotions, and you're looking for something that focusses on the outer world instead, you will enjoy this book. I expect that fans of Robert Frost and Wendell Berry might find a kindred spirit in John Clare too.
One warning, though - Clare uses very little punctuation, and this can make it difficult at times to figure out where sentences begin and end. I found I needed to pay careful attention to this, otherwise the images kept washing over me like a flood until they overwhelmed me. I found it helpful to read with a pencil in hand, so that I could place a mark where I thought each sentence ended.
Clare was a keep observer of landscape, flora and fauna and had a knack for apt comparisons that makes his poetry particularly vivid. The East Midlands rural dialect comes through clearly, but to me, this just adds to the charm. I particularly enjoyed some of the archaic words he uses - one of the reasons I enjoy traditional folk songs too.
If you need a break from the sort of poetry that goes to great lengths to describe the details of the poet's emotions, and you're looking for something that focusses on the outer world instead, you will enjoy this book. I expect that fans of Robert Frost and Wendell Berry might find a kindred spirit in John Clare too.
One warning, though - Clare uses very little punctuation, and this can make it difficult at times to figure out where sentences begin and end. I found I needed to pay careful attention to this, otherwise the images kept washing over me like a flood until they overwhelmed me. I found it helpful to read with a pencil in hand, so that I could place a mark where I thought each sentence ended.
June 1, 2016
I've been having this emailed to me in monthly installments by month. It's great, classic Clare. Love it but maybe not always the most interesting of his works.
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