Sonnet

Sunday

Upon the pew, a farmer bowed in prayer,
When through the hush there hummed a tiny wing;
The priest, amazed, cried, “How did you hear there?”
He smiled, “Such songs the fields each morning sing.”
As service closed, he cast some coins to ground;
The silver rang, and every head was turned.
“Mark how no ear the insect’s voice had found,
Yet all attend when wealth is swiftly earned.”
“For men,” he said, “will choose the sounds they keep,
And close their hearts to whispers they disdain;
The cricket’s hymn is lost in slumber deep,
But gold’s bright chime cuts through the thickest brain.”
   So test, alone amid the crowd’s loud cheer,
   What calls your soul, and what you choose to hear!


2026.05.31