Sunday, March 13, 2011

Day 5, Sonnet 5

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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