XXVII
Poor worm, poor silly worm, alas, poor beast!
Fear makes thee hide thy head within the ground,
Because of creeping things thou art the least,
Yet every foot gives thee thy mortal wound.
But I, thy fellow worm, am in worse state,
For thou thy sun enjoyest, but I want mine.
I live in irksome night, O cruel fate!
My sun will never rise, nor ever shine.
Thus blind of light, mine eyes misguide my feet,
And baleful darkness makes me still afraid;
Men mock me when I stumble in the street,
And wonder how my young sight so decayed.
Yet do I joy in this, even when I fall,
That I shall see again and then see all.
