Memory

I would not that my memory all should die,

And pass away with every common lot:

I would not that my humble dust should lie

In quite a strange and unfrequented spot,

By all unheeded and by all forgot,

With nothing save the heedless winds to sigh,

And nothing but the dewy morn to weep

About my grave, far hid from the world’s eye:

I fain would have some friend to wander nigh

And find a path to where my ashes sleep–

Not the cold heart that merely passes by,

To read who lies beneath, but such as keep

Past memories warm with deeds of other years,

And pay to friendship some few friendly tears.

Β 

John Clare – Gentleman poet, in all but name.

 

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