My friends forsake me like a memory lost:

I am the self-consumer of my woes — They rise and vanish in oblivion's host

Like shadows in love-frenzied stifled throes And yet I am, and live —like vapours tost

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 love the best,

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

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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