I've owed and become tireless in this clime,
Knowing your work is great, not minor;
I'm a pleader of your old vigour,

Where this abode is bad and acerbic,
You've laid ostrich egg to outlay eggs
Laid before. To move heavy legs

Across the red sea is effortlessly dismissed;
You're mercilessly wagged by men,
But filling of the blankness is your pen

Of seemingly good nature. Your happiness
Is to see the happiness...