A poem for August

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It is hard sometimes to drag ourselves back to the love of morning after we’ve lain in the dark crying out O God, save us from the horror. . . . God has saved the world one more day even with its leaden burden of human evil; we wake to birdsong. And if sunlight’s gossamer lifts in its net the weight of all that is solid, our hearts, too, are lifted, swung like laughing infants; but on gray mornings, all incident—our own hunger, the dear tasks of continuance, the footsteps before us in the earth’s belovéd dust, leading the way—all, is hard to love again for we resent a summons that disregards our sloth, and this calls us, calls us.