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.

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.

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.

How oft a summer shower has started me; to seek the shelter of a hollow tree

Wildness is my suiting scene.