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Who really am I

Being tossed like a die

Loathed as a no-man's dog

And deemed fit for the morgue?

What fainly can I offer

Amidst many a scoffer

Who dread my views like a bug

Hence dumping beneath the rug?

Where do I go thence

Whilst hung on the fence

As doors remain shut

And from all I'm but cut?

How could I have been made

With my neck to a blade

Could it be of a different clay

Molded too, on a different day?

Why was I but chosen

And reasons not given

As specimen of the gods

For trials to all new odds?

When will I cease to fare

In this abject nightmare

As amidst hobgobins I remain

Repressing my rational domain?

No worst there is none, pitched past pitch of grief,

More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring



(GM Hopkins)