And in the nipping morns, the ice around,
Lieth like Autumn’s gage defiant on the ground!
My heart is sick within me, I have toiled
In iron poverty and hopeless tears,
Tugging in fetters at the oar for years;
And wrestling in the ring of Life have soiled
My robes with dust, and strained my sinews sore;
I have no strength to struggle any more!
And what if I should perish?—none would miss
So strange a dreamer in a world like this—