Henry rested, possessed of many pills
& gin & whiskey. He put up his feet
& switched on Schubert.
His tranquility lasted five minutes
for (1) all that undone all the heavy weeks
and (2) images shook her alert.
A rainy Sunday morning, on vacation
as well as Fellowship, he could not rest:
bitterly he shook his head.
—Mr. Bones, the Lord will bring us to a nation
where everybody only rest.—I confess
that notion bores me dead,
for there’s no occupation there, save God,
if that, and long experience of His works
has not taught me his love.
His love must be a very strange thing indeed,
considering its products. No, I want rest here,
neither below nor above.