Sunday, October 06, 2013

A Grace: Poem

A Grace

God, I know nothing, my sense is all nonsense,
And fear of You begins intelligence:
Does it end there? For sexual love, for food,
For books and birch trees I claim gratitude,
But when I grieve over the unripe dead
My grief festers, corrupted into dread,
And I know nothing. Give us our daily bread.

"A Grace" by Donald Hall, from Old & New Poems. © Ticknor & Fields, 1990

From "The Writer's Almanac"

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