When my bones slump and creak,

wearied like bent backs from
labour, fervour and tarnished armour;
or brow, weighs full with furrow,
worries like furze, unkempt, above the
burrow of a muddied mind,
falling at the alter of pains,
like pilgrims to plaguestone, or widows
hailing shadows in deep comfort,

I will fear none, tear none, like ten sages
over, warships in the chase, raptors still,
in the airy circle.