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I was touched by this years ago and copied it out into a book, as we used to do then, before computers and copy and paste. Actually, I still copy poems and other stuff I like out longhand. And I noted above it ‘This was written in 1844 while the poet was in Northampton General Lunatic Asylum where he’d been since 1841 and would remain until his death.’

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.

 

 

 

 

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