Our Haste or Hour-haste

Come, said the green meadow, all giddy with gold, 

Wage feeds the body but I feed the soul.

Ah, emerald rush beneath the sky

Coaxing, inviting us to lie

Beneath the sweep of aural blue

But we have too much work to do

The pattern of an hour’s haste

Forbids us to be still and taste

Ambrosia of rain-washed breeze

Or spring’s sun-swaddled fantasies

The blue hills taunt from skyline shores

The green field beckons and implores

That we should come, wander awhile

Where gentler things of living smile

Ah, emerald rush of spring’s glad green

Here Mother Nature is a queen

Inviting pilgrim’s, one and all

To feast in her grand banquet hall

We ought to heed her pleasant plea

Climb to her lap of luxury

We ought to take the time to kneel

Beneath the grace of Bezaleel

The head, though it may be so smart

Should heed the whisper of the heart

How pitiful to sadly waste

A lifetime, bound by hour-haste

© Janet Martin