How oft a summer shower has started me; to seek the shelter of a hollow tree
He could not die when the trees were green, For he loved the time too well.
I was Byron and Shakespeare formerly.
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 shades in love and death's oblivion lost; And yet I am, and live with shadows tost.
Wildness is my suiting scene.
The present is the funeral of the past, And man the living sepulchre of life.