Mary Joyce
Clare never had her as his own, spurned him, but it never deterred him, the drawing so strong in later years, toward his end, he escaped the asylum he was in, to walk seventy miles in search of her.
I well relate to Clare and his mythical Mary.
The girl from grade school, the one who first kissed me, the one I never broke with, I just moved away in the summer, to this day has a line in every sonnet I compose.
If I found she was seventy miles northward, I do think I would break the walls I dwell behind and set out in search of her.
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