We rose too soon from it, with little rest
We had no time to gently sway.
We cut our grain with it, the harvest best
Enjoyed when all work's squared away.
The rivers ran through it, the fertile crest
We all must pilgrim to some day.
But all will curl in it, who holds fears, lest
They lose eternal sleep, or meet delay
In the cradle.
Written May 3, Revised May 6
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