Don't berate me! It just so happens -
I'm no type to sell words off-rack.
Golden head of mine, growing heavy,
Has reclined altogether back.
Neither town nor the country endear me:
That my love should have still been true!
I'll quit everything. Grow a beard,
And move off as a tramp about Russ.
I'll put out of my head books and poems,
Lay a rucksack over my back,
After all, to a wretch in the open,
Winds sing more than to anyone else.
I'll smell up of black radish and onion,
And, annoying the peace of the night,
I'll blow nose in a fist, never hiding,
And play fool in whatever I try.
And I don't crave for anything better
Than just day-dreaming, harking to storms
Now that I am unable to get by
In the wide world without being odd.