The Sabbath day perplexes modern hearts
Who often strive for productivity
As though a steady pulse were worlds apart
From one’s industrious activity.
A discontent too quickly comes with rest,
As though to cease one’s work were cease of breath,
But hours logged by lungs inside one’s chest:
That’s vocation, ‘tis work to stave off death.
Take moments, then, to idle or observe,
To walk without intent, without desire.
To see the blue horizon’s gentle curve
Or ponder birds upon a tel’phone wire.
A noble work this is, the task: to be.
The fruit of labour is serenity.
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