My dreams were never overbig,
Yet even in their very least
So they were blocked—no minor swig
Of water midst the whirligig.

About me, some tormentors feast
Oblivious to the way I starve,
Or else, belittled as a beast,
I hear contempt expand like yeast.

’Tis but a tone in words as serve
Me to diminish, that I hear
Enough to make my faith unnerve,
Me from the right intention swerve.

If I had been a volunteer
Upon this army—so to dig
My future grave by force and fear--
Nor even one would shed a tear.