My illness was love, though I knew not the smart, But the beauty of love was the blood of my heart. - John Clare

The ivyed oaks dark shadow falls Oft picking up with wondering gaze Some little thing of other days Saved from the wreck of time.

Solitude

There is a charm in Solitude that cheers
A feeling that the world knows nothing of
A green delight the wounded mind endears
After the hustling world is broken off
Whose whole delight was crime at good to scoff
Green solitude his prison pleasure yields
The bitch fox heeds him not — birds seem to laugh
He lives the Crusoe of his lonely fields
Which dark green oaks his noontide leisure shields

To-morrow comes, true copy of to-day, And empty shadow of what is to be; Yet cheated Hope on future still depends, And ends but only when our being ends.