It is my nature to forage, pick wisps of hay
and such for those who much deserve a field
of their own.
How can I scatter the contents of my kirtled apron;
small kernels, seeded on another plain.
Gleaned in hope, each grain or strand may hold a subtle
poison, bring rise of bile, twist of heart, lasting pain.
Sight blighted with the wilt of age,
I know not what I gather.