But the coward fear | of all things feels,
And not gladly the niggard gives.
[a]49]. My garments once | in a field I gave
To a pair of carven poles;
Heroes they seemed | when clothes they had,
But the naked man is nought.
[a]50]. On the hillside drear | the fir-tree dies,
All bootless its needles and bark;
It is like a man | whom no one loves,—
Why should his life be long?