Every minute yesterday it seemed
I had to push me up an endless hill
with leaden legs, on avenues that teemed
with people who looked hungry, sad or ill.

The sun was golden warm and stronger bright
than it had been for all the weekend past,
but I was not receptive to that sight;
I cloaked my view in murky overcast.

For angry disappointment held my arms
and pushing me, it acted as support,
while bitchiness embellished me like charms
and egged me on and made fatigue retort:
Till I precipitated my debris
and took a bath, and there uncovered me.