1 My wo 'is' to me, for I have been As gatherings of summer-fruit, As gleanings of harvest, There is no cluster to eat, The first-ripe fruit desired hath my soul.
2 Perished hath the kind out of the land, And upright among men -- there are none, All of them for blood lie in wait, Each his brother they hunt 'with' a net.
3 On the evil 'are' both hands to do 'it' well, The prince is asking -- also the judge -- for recompence, And the great -- he is speaking the mischief of his soul, And they wrap it up.
Share this page