no winter farm

so often broken scented with manure

dark earth yields little without freight of pain

not yellow tubers nor yet tasty grain

that does not speak of what we must endure

this simple purpose is the only cure

beneath the moon our inner voice says plain

for what ails most but there is no great gain

nor ever hope that wisdom will come pure

here light may sting and sun will leave a burn

noon is not dark nor will we ever pine

for the lost sweetness of the rising sap

no children dance with joy at sunreturn

nor old men feel the need for warming wine

yet each must have the sense of a sprung trap