Classic Poem

Before my back was bent I was eloquent
For wonders men acclaimed me,
And Argoed's men maintained me.

Before my back was bent I was confident:
A guest at wassails hailed
In Powys paradise of Wales.

Before my back was bent I was eminent
Of mien. My warspear led the attack;
Now bowbacked, downbent, trouble-racked.

Wooden staff, it is autumn.
Brown the bracken, the stubble yellow;
What once I loved I've said farewell to.

Wooden staff, it is winter.
Men are loud-tongued over their drink;
None puts in at my bed's brink.

Wooden staff, it is spring.
Cuckoos are hidden, clear their plaintive call;
Girls have no use for me at all.

Wooden staff, it is early summer.
Brown the furrow, curly the young corn;
The sight of your crook makes me groan.

This leaf by the wind rolled,
Alas for its destiny.
Born this year: already old.

What I loved as a lad I now curse:
A girl, a stranger, a young horse;
With none of them can stay the course.

Four ills, of all my hates the chief,
Are met in me together:
Coughing, old age, sickness, grief.

I'm senile, lonely, twisted and cold
After the bed of desire. I'm galled
With misery. My back's thrice-snarled.

No girl wants me, no friend haunts me,
Age daunts and enwalls me.
Ah Death, why don't you call me?

Wretched the doom for Llywarch doomed
The night he left the womb:
Toil upon toil, long pain, unbroken gloom.