The Lot of Man
O man, the ground is cursed because of you,
and all your days are labor filled with pain.
The harvests from the field are meager, few,
burned by the sun, drowned by torrential rain.
The thorns and thistles, plotting, will conspire
to join as an impenetrable foe;
unceasingly, to never weaken, tire,
they add still further misery to your woe.
And if perchance a gracious yield abounds,
‘tis not yet time to lay your weary head;
thy beast of burden, yoked, must make its rounds,
trod out the grain to make the daily bread.
And yet, the lot of man: to work the soil,
raise drink in thanks, find joy amongst the toil.
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