20190214.0430

In jealous longings, too,
The Stupid God comes through,
And there’s nothing to do
But to labor further on.
That God-made trail-dug hole
Is distraction from a goal
That we do well to extol
As we labor further on.
It boots naught to trip and fall
And, in stumbling, be made thrall
To the stultifying call
And for it labor on.
But the work must still be done
However often begun
Or stopped.