Wages

I’ll take your strength by minutes,
I’ll take your life by hours,
I’ll drain you like a fevered moon
That saps the spinning world.
The nights go by like shadows,
The minutes wheel like stars.
I take the pity from your heart,
And make it into smiles.
You are a hunk of sculptor's clay,
My secret thoughts are fingers:
They fly behind your pensive brow
And line it deep with pain.
They set the lips, and sag the cheeks,
And droop the eyes with sorrow.
Your soul has entered in the clay,
Fighting like seven devils.
You beat the windows, shake the bolts.
You hide in a corner--
And I have died and haunt you,
And hunt you for life.