As the clumsy shape of a bruin's paw,
Knotted and big with his labor long,
Yet sure in the work that made them strong.
Snarling with curse for his hairy throat,
Poverty feared his strong, rough grasp,
Sick with rage at the saw's bright hasp
That flashed with howl and cut with gloat.
The mother of death and a merciless fate,
She filled his life with the gloom of hate.
Yet his heart strives upward to his tongue