My day of labor,
Spent ill at ease,
Is drawing to a close.
My sleeping neighbor,
The winter freeze,
Has begun to lift his nose.

The last dregs of sunlight
Seep weakly from the sky.
"Come comfort us," they seem to call,

"As we descend to die."

"How terribly conceited,"
I in my rest did say.
An old man grant the setting sun
The cosmic right of way?

My day of errand
Spent but to give
Amongst the earth and sod,
Draws not a fair end.
For I must live
To see the death of god.