Though I be walking in the August dust.
Often my lone contrary sword is bright
When every other soldier’s sword is rust.
Sometimes, while churchly friends go up to God
On wings of prayer to altars of delight
I walk and talk with Satan, call him friend,
And greet the imps with converse most polite.
When hunger nips me, then at once I knock
At the near farmer’s door and ask for bread.
I must, when I have wrought a curious song