Sonnet #242

Where is the patron saint of happiness, of things

and people never lost, of a health that blossoms

self and painless mornings and easy losses?

All our prayers to call away the sufferings

Seem to breed dependence on the Lord

As if this world of suffering is built to bleed us

Until we must cry out for grace to relieve us

And saints must help those tuggers on their cord.


Lord, grant us saints of happiness, of everyday

Get out of beds, of Morning coffee, whistled tunes,

And tousled hair late in the day, where we stay

Among the rushes, among the birdsongs, stay

Lord, grant us patron saints of all those lazy afternoons

Of peaceful copper sunsets, and brilliant early moons.

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