758 and 759

I rested first—unregimented rest

I took—a rest that lasted ‘til I could,

as well as I could gauge, at my true best,

do all the best my weak frame ever would.

Then something I could do without great risk,

some task I knew I would wantonly win,

some game or practice I could do so brisk,

that effort could reward, and day begin.

And with day won, and with rest fully known,

true work was mine! I could do anything

I needed without any sorry groan,

for victory already stole work’s sting!

And suddenly I saw that victory

was normal—if I took my rest to me.

~

I woke, and stayed in bed until I thought

to walk, aimless, around my neighborhood.

More restful, far, than usual bed rot,

far more refreshing, and, for hope, more good.

But coming home I did not set to work,

no, did not make my bed, did not do chores,

but sat to write a poem, and work shirk,

until I felt its joy within my pores.

Then, then, and only then, was it then time

to work. When I knew that I had lived well—

that, if I died before my work, a rhyme

would live beyond me, and my stories tell.

I made my bed, but only after worth

had visited my bones with its rebirth.