A WASTED MORNING
I wasted a morning!
Where? And why?
I let swift hours go silently by,
As I lay at the foot of an ancient tree,
And let God’s universe talk to me.
Wind and shadow, cloud and bird,
Spoke each to my heart a musical word.
The little brown cone that fell on my cheek,
The squirrel who mocked with an impudent squeak,
The golden mushroom brimmed with death,
The twin-flower blessing the air with its breath;
Old spider spinning above my head
A magical dream with her rainbow thread;
The liliput vases of moss below;
The sudden caw of a picket crow;
The rhythmical green of a supple snake
Quivering into a lair of brake;
The grumbling bee, the whispering pine—
What need had they for a word of mine?
They lived the poem; they wove the spell
No tongue could utter, no phrases tell;
And a human voice could but disgrace
The eloquent stillness of the place.
So I lay at the foot of the ancient tree,
And let God’s free verse sing to me.