cheat me of my share of that which makes it sweet to strive for life and dying still survive
a name in sunshine written higher than lark or poet day to spire but I grew weary of doing well
besides to a sweeter in that hell down with the loud banditty people who robbed the orchards
climbed the steeple for jackdaws eggs and made the cock crow ere twas daylight on the clock
I was so very bad the neighbours spoke of me at their daily labours
and now I'm drinking wine in France the helpless child of circumstance
tomorrow will be loud with war how will I be accounted for it is too late now to retrieve
a fallen dream too late to grieve a name unmade but not too late to thank the gods for what is
and greater than a poet's fame a little grave that has no name
