DIÁRIOS DO UMBIGO

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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 shades in love and death's oblivion lost; / And yet I am, and live with shadows tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, / Into the living sea of waking dreams, / Where there is neither sense of life nor joys, / But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems; / And e'en the dearest — that I loved the best — / Are strange — nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has 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.

John Clare

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Diários do Umbigo

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