Dream, Part 2

In junior year of high school, I took a class called 3D Modeling and Animation. One of the programs we learned to use was free, called Blender 3D. I still use it because it's very useful. We also learned to use iClone, another modeling software, and CrazyTalk, a program that animates pictures to talk.
Someone named Tom Jantol made a well-known CrazyTalk montage using the following poem ("I Am"). We were supposed to create something similar. I made a video using Wesnoth pictures and John Keats's sonnet, "The Human Seasons". My teacher, Mizzy, sent it to Tom, and Mizzy passed along his response to me. I've grown very attached to both poems.

Blender 3D: http://www.blender.org
Battle for Wesnoth: http://www.wesnoth.org
"I Am":  http://www.bartleby.com/101/621.html
Tom's video using "I Am": http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZbLn4tBns0
"The Human Seasons": http://www.bartleby.com/41/539.html
My video using "The Human Seasons": http://www.youtube.com/user/stupidjaguar7#p/u/14/B4b4W70MeTw

I included the poems and Tom's response.

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"Written in Northampton County Asylum", by John Clare

I am! yet what I am who cares, or knows?
My friends forsake me like a memory lost.
I am the self-consumer of my woes;
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,
Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.
And yet I am—I live—though I am toss'd

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dream,
Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys,
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem
And all that 's dear. Even those I loved the best
Are strange—nay, they are stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod—
For scenes where woman never smiled or wept—
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,—
The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.

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"The Human Seasons", by John Keats

Four Seasons fill the measure of the year;
There are four seasons in the mind of man:
He has his lusty Spring, when fancy clear
Takes in all beauty with an easy span:
He has his Summer, when luxuriously
Spring's honey'd cud of youthful thought he loves
To ruminate, and by such dreaming high
Is nearest unto heaven: quiet coves
His soul has in its Autumn, when his wings
He furleth close; contented so to look
On mists in idleness—to let fair things
Pass by unheeded as a threshold brook.
He has his Winter too of pale misfeature,
Or else he would forego his mortal nature.

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Tom's response: