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.
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.