70 Often I tugged at four sweet brothers,
Pumped and plied for a day's full drink
At each dangling hole--but the dark herdsman
Pulled my pleasure as I grew older,
And I was drawn to wider roads-moors,
Fields-bound by beam and neck-ring
To earth-trace and a gait of suffering,
Haul of sorrow. I kept silence,
Goaded by iron, side-sting--
Moaned to no man, even as punishing
Point and pace together tracked pain.