Waking in the Attic Bedroom
More innocently born and calmer seems
In its soft summer haze
This Sunday morning than all other days.
No early footsteps walk into my dreams,
A peace is everywhere
As if the whole created world believed in prayer,
Over the solitary fields of wheat,
And down the village street,
And on my folded clothes across the chair.
In its soft summer haze
This Sunday morning than all other days.
No early footsteps walk into my dreams,
A peace is everywhere
As if the whole created world believed in prayer,
Over the solitary fields of wheat,
And down the village street,
And on my folded clothes across the chair.
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