A wanderer with no home
The way without road
Had rotten by sicknes
And legs're going float

I'm walking the woods and the fields I've not knowed
I meet up the persons, who've taken by turmoil
I'm looking desireless to treasures of toil
In case that their souls took corruption and spoils

My only follower
Is my lonley shadow
And eyes have been closed
By grey hair's pay down

My only own package
Is staff and old note book
Which I will write down
For other's mind forelook

I'll stay in a harsh land with cold wind and passions
There's no place for bards with their thoughtless regressions
There'll be only me and a century pinetrees
Replace up the building of steel and my blindness

In hovel my body
Get warned by fire
And well with fresh water
Will cool the heart's dire

I'll put my old staff in a snowdrift with dashes
When my robe is almost converted to ashes
Then I will transform in a cold river's flowing
And flow down too far to remember the calling

It comes in a vertical embrace,
Upward journey into the wee of night.
London bells like I have heard.
Sweet sleep perturbed by zazzy waves.
And tick-tock race, chasing my dreams.

It comes so soon as it fades so fast,
Racing tracks to an unseen end.
Talk yester-in, then the reach.
Splattered, sweated ink on whitened blank
With worthy plans to splash on it.

Plan for it, work on it, and rest in it.
Think headwise and not waistwise.
Headseed first does end in fame.
Waistful thought endures in pain.
Quitted-morrow is ignorance's dad.

Those who forelook rejoice in it.
Those that wish-watch regret in it.
Today’s seed is its tree.
Take the pill for the pain
And tomorrow is its gain.