godless and jobless, like a heathen, cursed,
heaving heaviness, ploughing; a worn scowl,
gathering with a sullen trudge in a sunless field,
turning the screw; like the slow screw song
I fear the reaper, his gait and glinting grin,
I worry it has all been in vain, still vain as ever—
I roll dices, I fie cursing and vie so unavailingly;
I sleep sound, and wake early.