Affliction

Ingrates writhe in scorn.

The invalid ponders in vain –

a Job of unholy agonies disdained.

While we in our coziest,

with thimble, page through the

          daily mail.

 

We yearn to be as Job, slated

not as fool, or quack, or faint,

but staid, even in the faded bloom

          of meadow.

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