THE skies were jaded, while the famous sun <br />Slack of his office to confute the fogs <br />Lay sick abed; but I, inured to duty, <br />Sat for my food. Three hours each day we souls, <br />Who might be angels but are fastened down <br />With bodies, most infuriating freight, <br />Sit fattening these frames and skeletons <br />With filthy food, which they must cast away <br />Before they feed again.<br /><br />John Crowe Ransom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/morning-79/
