When I consider darker days
I’m tempted sore against the light
My Quaker forebearers clear of sight
Might shake their heads, avert their gaze
There is such sin as slothful laze
Of inner gifts that languish while
Powers that be ingest their bile
a sad refrain, our wretched ways
are amplified against the dark
and ancestors, who rarely sang
still whisper softly while I sleep
wake up today, to angels, hark
remember all the bells that rang
still ring—call to me, rise now, seek.
Early Morning Poems 