Who rests from their labours only to sleep,

thankful the day has been forgettable?

 

Enslaved, who dreams to reach the heights-

his pillow, this song, remains pitiful.

 

The song of any man, old Adam's

song: a tired tale quite unaccountable.

 

Let the penniless artist pluck the tune:

scraps of beauty so invaluable.

 

As men dream to play at octaves higher

all their warts and all are invisible.

 

Obscure this mirror for ourselves and friends

for our friends are also sensible.

 

How melodies turn, oh long to be lost!

yet all the while would be memorable.

 

Most various strings they all are tuned

to the common cry; plain and loveable.