upon the hills no heather

no fraction of the truth is left to measure
we've just about exhausted all that's known
above our heads we see the birds have flown
to other places as is their wont and pleasure
duty finds ways to interrupt our leisure
the fields of wisdom are not yet well-sown
i turn to obligation with neither sigh nor moan
to find the truth's by far the greatest treasure
who would when working deny a beggar bread
but give the wealthy all they want in gold
is not a fool but something that's far worse
all senses reconcile to announce great dread
the message we receive is now quite old
and no one stays to answer when we curse