UNFINISHED PASTORALE
My mornings would be bliss,
My afternoons well-spent,
My evenings all serene--
Could I but pitch my tent
Beneath the Trees of Idleness.
Without a sense of shame
My senses all would blend,
Like sunlight, into fields
And flocks of sheep, and men
Who reap and sow the deathless grain.
The breeze would whisper me
A tale of no tomorrow;
The sculpture of the clouds
Would gently hover over,
Revealing all my thoughts to me.
And I would send regrets
To Fortune's harried slaves,
Who grind her ruthless wheel
Into each other's graves,
Beneath the lamps of sleeplessness.
My sleep would be profound,
Descending into glens
And pastures of a Soul
Whose living dream I Am:
A vista without fences bound.
What movement and what rest!
To lapse into the course
Of Nature s hidden stream--
Returning to its source,
Like roots of leafy Idleness.
