(From This Day: Collected & New Sabbath Poems)
by Wendell Berry
Here where the world is being made,
No human hand required,
A man may come, somewhat afraid
Always, and somewhat tired,
For he comes ignorant and alone
From work and worry of
A human place, in soul and bone
The ache of human love.
He may come and be still, not go
Toward any chosen aim
Or stay for what he thinks is so.
Setting aside his claim
On all things fallen in his plight,
His mind may move with leaves,
Wind-shaken, in and out of light,
And live as the light lives,
And live as the Creation sings
In covert, two clear notes,
And waits; then two clear answerings
Come from more distant throats–
May live a while with light, shaking
In high leaves, or delayed
In halts of song, submit to making,
The shape of what is made.
You can find this poem in This Day: Collected & New Sabbath Poems.