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

SolitudeThere is a charm in Solitude that cheersA feeling that the world knows nothing ofA green delight the wounded mind endearsAfter the hustling world is broken offWhose whole delight was crime at good to scoffGreen solitude his prison pleasure yieldsThe bitch fox heeds him not -- birds seem to laughHe lives the Crusoe of his lonely fieldsWhich dark green oaks his noontide leisure shields

I sleep with thee, and wake with thee,And yet thou are not there;I fill my arms with thoughts of thee,And press the common air.

Language has not the power to speak what love inditesThe soul lies buried in the Ink that writes

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.

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 hid my love when young till ICouldn't bear the buzzing of a fly;I hid my life to my despiteTill I could not bear to look at light:I dare not gaze upon her faceBut left her memory in each place;Where'er I saw a wild flower lieI kissed and bade my love good-bye.