Sternness done me not a thing, not a service, not a ring
but through nose and lead me in fields of toil, service to all; to self recoil
To future I press forward the path, for now the brow, the beat, the wrath
May grapes maintain a cheerful grin and hide the scowl of turning skin
Age from ploughshare and sword alike, stoke the fire the longing knight
Return me home to widow’s weather
No one has won this game
In her arms cold
metal she feels and dies from it
a puddle of wet I find, nothing to love, neither young nor kind
No, sternness done me not a thing