I walk adrift this long and lonely lane,
Wishing to repose somewhere
For I’m way-worn and starving
But I don’t have pence to my name;
And I’m so tired that I want myself slain.
All I’m become is a dust-laden wayfarer,
Plodding through pastoral hamlets begging;
I know not what pride is, what shame.
But I’m a son of Gods I believe—
I receive so they can give.
I’ll plant a kiss on the welkin
For showering me with myriad kin
Of this they’re oblivious though
But someday they’ll know, I know.