Classic Poem

Feed me with the bread of tears,
overfill my cup;
pour for me to drink it up
vintage of the bitter years.

Sweep the glen the northern rain;
comb the moor the wind;
come the hours in which I sinned
all to memory again.

Strew with fear my late-sought bed;
sleep no better bring;
twist and wreck the wretched thing
till the pillow loath my head.

May the medicine that heals
only come too late;
and the world with all its weight
hang upon my weary heels.

Let my very friend be stern;
let his features cloud;
let him mutter half aloud:
Take the wages which you earn.