“ Language has not the power to speak what love inditesThe soul lies buried in the Ink that writes ”
In crime and enmity they lie Who sin and tell us love can die, Who say to us in slander's breath That love belongs to sin and death.
~ John Clare
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
I found the poems in the fields,And only wrote them down.
O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away
