A silver sickle over its shoulder
And commence its harvesting.
The strong moon ploughed through the fields of heaven,
Its eternal labour but half-begun.
My breast dropped its load of earthy leaven
As the stars dropped one by one.
I had sat there hugging my trivial cross,
My infinitesimal mortal pains,
Reckoning up how my mortal loss
Outmeasured my mortal gains.