Wildness is my suiting scene.
The present is the funeral of the past, And man the living sepulchre of life.
Ah, words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away.
He could not die when the trees were green, For he loved the time too well.
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.
I am gennerally understood tho I do not use that awkward squad of pointings called commas colons semicolons etc.