Dark summer days
            when woe is full in bloom, when men of mettle
            bend beneath the load of doleful doubts, backs
            broken by the gloom, heads drooping low from
            stress and strains untold

Rake up your strife,
            rake troubles in a heap, uplift the rug,
            sweep sweep the grime below, and in a sack,
            stuff all the ills you keep to bursting, till
            the sack must overflow

Trundle your woes
            down to the market square, set out a stall
            and hawk to trade your wares.  Like-minded folk
            are cloistered everywhere, imploring you
            to give your sack for theirs

Well friend, would you
            exchange for the unknown, or else relent
            to take your own sack home?