Happy the man who walks in the way of the Lord.
So he reads. Is it happiness that extends to him
The traveling song of a sleepless mockingbird
Somewhere in the blue night? The trees brim
With the sound, desire’s bright urgency and haste,
Shallow creekwater hurrying over stone
And its own undulant shadows. The hermit, chaste
In old age, reading the psalms, leans to listen
A moment with that detachment which is bliss
To one who’s left a precious thing behind.
He finds he doesn’t miss it. If an abyss
Should open in his soul now, would he mind
Falling into it? Is this happiness, not to burn?
So late, he thinks. Still so much left to learn.