On no work of words now for three lean months in the bloody¹

　　Belly² of the rich year and the big purse of my body

　　I bitterly take to task my poverty and craft：

　　To take to give is all， return what is hungrily given

　　Puffing³ the pounds of manna up through the dew to heaven，

　　The lovely gift of the gab⁴ bangs back on a blind shaft⁵.

　　To lift to leave from treasures of man is pleasing death

　　That will rake at last all currencies of the marked breath

　　And count the taken， forsaken⁶ mysteries in a bad dark.

　　To surrender now is to pay the expensive ogre twice.

　　Ancient woods of my blood， dash down to the nut of the seas

　　If I take to burn or return this world which is each man'swork.