Infected. It peeves at everything
Even at nothing
Breeze that cools sweat
Of toil is not let alone.
It recoinciles not with care.
A tetchy mind
How it calms not to station
Makes one disposed of sense
This mind I call mine
Is beyond my grip.
An irate mind reconciles not
The tenderer's soothy air
It responds in voicy boasty
Adamancy.