I 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 the drear frost,

And yet I am, and live—I am!
I shall go on till the last day of my life, Fate that I must submit, I cannot strive,
I dare not to be otherwise than I am.

II I take my clue from nature’s joy, Who never cares about the rhyme, With whom it is no game or toy, She laughs and sings at every time.

Not art, but nature let me be; O, wanderer from each pale delight, For beauty does not soil with me Nor cares for tints that fall with night.

III The robins sing in my garden’s heart; The flowers bloom in a simple way; In every corner, love has its part, Birds flutter on the soft light of day.

• John Clare