The Abbey bells call and I do not come,
sleep having gotten the better of me,
though my thigh muscles twitch and urge me to run
to pray with the monks punctually.
But here there is bird song and coffee and books,
the comforts of morning that flatter and ease
the beautiful hour God made just to please
his children, to witness our gratified looks.
I make myself sit in the lap of the grass,
of lake and of sky and of shimmering birch,
and watch the parade of the minutes that pass
the hewn stone wall of my breezy porch.
I stay here to please us, Lord, both You and me,
where I unlearn to do, while I practice to be.
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