When thy life’s span has stretched to threescore,
No rest hast thou at dawn or evening.
The shivering in thy bones, the shivering
In all thy marrows through this season dire,
Makes summer seem a shameful wretched thing—
For God’s love put fresh coals upon the fire.
The burden of dead apples. Lo, their doom,
Decay and blight upon the tender trees,
All fruit made fruitless, blossom bloomless bloom
An eastern wind of many miseries.