What Am I

I fooled myself: I thought I knew the way.
Not a writer, not a poet, not a lover, not a man;
But what am I, now, under skies without light,
Where none of the pathways ran
To any hill that might have offered sight
Above the plain? Beyond the swarms?
I once had maps, but all the lines
Have wandered from the colours and the forms
Of every crossroad, and the pines
Are no more of a landmark than the clay.