Time mocks me like the impish will-o’-the-wisp:
“Places to be, things to see.”
Tempting, taunting, twirling me into the gloaming.
Hurry enchants like the salacious siren’s song:
“So much to do, so little done.”
Lilting, laughing, luring me into the foaming.
Waiting dwells in a secret sunny glen.
“Come apart; rest a while.”
Still, silent, surrounded in a gently practiced calm,
Lost in fireflies and pleasant things.
Home of God, fount of peace.