July 3, 2014
At rest he lies, the spinning thoughts of day On the turbulent surface of the outer mind Are quieted, peace ushers them away, The drowsy eyes that ever seek to find Are closed as dreams begin to softly steal Upon the sleeper in his house of clay, Opening out on worlds that seem more real Than the eclectic incidents of day. And yet to wake to sky and morning's call With hummingbirds and noisy geese a-flight, To see the oaks and maples in the fall Is joy more real than escapades of night. Life burns in him beneath a burnished sky As flames the heart of one who would not die But lives in gratitude and walks towards light.
Poems Undated (1727)
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