I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day,
  What times, O what black times we've spent
  This night!  What sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet more long light's slow way.
Well vouched for I speak this.  But where I say
  Times I mean years, mean life.  What I give vent
  Is cries past count, cries like old dead mail sent
To most dear him that lives, oh woe! not here.

I am gall, I am burnt heart.  God's rule most deep
Tart tongued would have me taste: my taste was me;
  Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.
Own yeast of soul a dull dough turns bad.  I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
  As I am mine, their sweat drenched selves; but worse.

                                -- Dad Small Hops