Classic Poem

In the old time when September's stubble gleamed
And as the content of all folk-writing seemed
The true consolation for all woes, I made
Music out of stubbornness and was glad.
But now the pen writes words, and the brain is content,
Fates haggle for me, the body has its bent,
And only theological and ethical discussions
Continue like a toothache, from black hidden dread.