Monday, May 9

I Am


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;--

The rise and vanish in oblivion’s 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 love 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 were I lie,

The grass below—above, the vaulted sky




By John Clare 1793-1864