John Clare Escapes The Essex Asylum

How romantic they are in his mind, crouched around the fire singing songs, their sad emaciated dog behind them, barking at the moon. He counts the wrongs, pities them in his way, himself not right in life, or ever in his troubled head. He, too, beholds things in a different light. Today the ale was malty, amber red, yet like a grunting badger he now runs, looking for Mary in the hazel woods. He will not find her, or their ghostly sons. He’ll spend the night outside the Gypsy camp, pipe in his mouth, bag full of stolen goods, his mind warmed by sweet dreams, his body damp.