Waking (A Poor Man's Sonnet)
To be what we are is matter of labour,
There is nothing more wished on Earth than
The flowering of human souls by the creator
Some say we are sleeping - others simply run,
She who, the lone hours knows, a direction
Time’s mere motion cannot ken to fathom
Nor the fury’s pace of great elections,
Ever trampled, ever scourged, ever sought -
The blossom of a heart unknown’s power:
Hides all, holds all, knows all;
yet bought, rent, sold.
The divine within the chest begins to sour
Make haste now, sow the soul, prepare the flower,
What is, must be; pray not to the penny nor the hour.