  The heaven and earth they call so great, For me are mickle small; The sun and moon they call so bright, For me ne'er shine at all. Are all men sad, or only I? And what have I obtained— What good the gift of mortal life, That prize so rarely gained, If nought my chilly back protects But one thin grass-cloth coat, In tatters hanging like the weeds That on the billows float— If here in smoke-stained, darksome hut, Upon the bare cold ground, I make my wretched bed of straw, And hear the mournful sound— Hear how mine aged parents groan, And wife and children cry, Father and mother, children, wife, Huddling in misery— If in the rice-pan, nigh forgot, The spider hangs its nest, And from the hearth no smoke goes up Where all is so unblest? And now, to make our wail more deep, That saying is proved true Of "snipping what was short before":— Here comes to claim his due, The village provost, stick in hand He's shouting at the door;— And can such pain and grief be all Existence has in store? Stanza Shame and despair are mine from day to day; But, being no bird, I cannot fly away. Anon. |
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