What Make I Of

What make I of this that blackens white and bleaches the night;
Of the boar willing to the table and the man freeing, glad and able;
Of the sun kissing the moon and the night orb not consumed;
Of the pan of the pauper tinkling, and his pockets jingling;
Of the unrest of the militant, and armistice of the occupant;

Of the blows to my face, and my smile unerased;
Of the wine in my cup, and the milk I sup;
Of the sweat on my brow, and my feet on the snow;
Of the dead in my veins, and my taskmaster of a brain?
Of...and...the end.