I am—yet what I am, none cares or knows;

  My friends forsake me like a memory loss;

I am the self-consumer of my woes— 

  They rise and vanish in oblivious host, 

Like shadows in love frenzied stifled throes 

  And yet I am, and live—like vaporous tossed

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Into the nothingness of scorn and noise

  Into the living sea of waking dream, 

Where there is neither sense of life or joys, 

  But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;

Even the dearest that I love the best

  Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.

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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. 

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