|
|
|
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 vapors tossed -John Clare (1793-1864), I am, written while he was confined in the General Lunatic Asylum in Northampton, where he spent about the last third of his life. |