"Surely I have composed and quieted my soul; Like a weaned child rests against his mother, My soul is like a weaned child within me." (Ps. 131:2)
Make of my soul a twilight-place,
Quiet calmness, evening-touch,
The fever-pace, still, at sun-slant,
Pride’s poor man leans upon his crutch.
To listen, until I am taught,
To wait, until my soul has heard,
In silence, for my empty thoughts,
To speak, to say I have no words.