Peace hath slept in slumber,
And doeth his work well,
Peace hath no sadness,
But in a stillness doth he dwell.
Sloth has no work,
For work is not his own,
His slumber never ends,
And weariness is in his bones.
Joy hath many friends,
Going to and fro;
Skipping in her gladness,
She pulls her happy plow.
Anger is of sorrow,
Learning not of joy,
Feeling ever mournful,
And depression doth he enjoy.
When the day is done,
And all have had their say,
Wisdom comes and calls,
Bringing understand in her way.
© 2012 db
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