Chore

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Chore

Sonnet

In my inhabiting robe I feel a new inrush,
All over body and thought and feeling its push
I feel, all known hypothesis it stoutly does refuse,
By dusk are strewn dead my careful conjectures.

If there is a design to this slow dismantling,
This deliberate excision of me from my being,
I know not its end, not know its baffling course,
But walk I must, hope and dare without remorse.

A cold courage of hardened mountain snows,
An armoured hope impossibly within now grows.
Often I sense some high eye at me gazing silently,
Wordless it impels me to hope and strive relentlessly.

Harsh, lonely and silent are the roads to heaven,
But this the chore to me the Master has given.