DCCLXXIV

A Pointed mark against a stand
With which a sound resigns its weight
And fervent hopes disperse but scant
A misanthropic note to meet the date

Flesh bends but all too willingly
As it has beneath the biting nail
And corpulent strides contested
A thrush of grain beneath the flail

Thus, the ponderous calamity resides
Only within my portent vow
That all with which my heart now placate
Is but, to you, a passing bow

At last I grant thee pardon, hence
From my stony grasp sought unclosed
For if I shan’t then life be taken
From your pale throat, and visage rosed

Escape me, exhausted thing
That harkened my own pains
Your task is done, and night is here
To end the light that wanes