I have come to the height of neglectthe not-done not minded at allgive me a knock on the headwith a rose full of sorrowmy not-doing is madeout of hope and shame
O plate O my wrong spoonI cannot eat as we used tothe evils I order for dinnerthe ice and the ginless and less able to bear itthough it be light I served up
measure me for a black suitfull of yesterday’s pleasureI shall do business with loss and wartill my eyes begin to failand I begin to take a rathome to supper