"[sitting on street bench] More than I, if truth were told, / Have stood and sweated hot and cold, / And through their reins in ice and fire / Fear contended with desire. Agued once like me were they / I like them shall win my way / Lastly to the bed of mould / Where there's neither heat nor cold. But from my grave across my brow / Plays no wind of healing now, / And fire and ice within me fight / Beneath the suffocating night."