It were perhaps too good to preen, This thing, this much elided stream, To rest therewith, tremulous ream Of thoughts forthwith from misery.
Let not the beggar hear my words: There is no hope in timely dress; World it cares not for men deferred From caring press and relatives. Too much it cares for common things, A word said soft, need not for pain, Yet broken in its gleaning thoughts, Suffβring not well deserved stains.
These things, I say, they cast a sea Before dim eyes, make blind men cry, Rob their sight, evβn in sightβs drought; This I say, casts little more tβme.