Few poets produced more great poetry at an earlier age than John Keats.
This is possibly the saddest poem I have ever read.
You would have to have a hard heart indeed not to feel pity for Clare and to hear the utter truth, sincerity and pathos of ‘I Am”.
These lines are a heroic quatrain in more than one sense. Such pure stoicism is rare in English.
The old hoard the Night shall keep, / while earth waits and the Elves sleep.