Long Lost Peace
The hill brown-painted in the light
by William McBride
Is pretty, though tested by the eye's pleasance.
The day-monumental hill stands
In the pretty morning rain-showers that come late,
A monument guarded by the pacing larks.
The long lost rain showers it all,
The larks of the late afternoon and the rocks and I.
I am long lost among the weeds, Lord,
In the worn-out late afternoon hunting my way back.
The broad-leafed weeds, Lord, are little,
And little charitable help me to find some path.
I am sunken and worn-out too from thinking
Of a path left in the day warring to go down.
My never-resting thoughts leave me afraid to steal.