The clouds are non-existent in the blue September sky;
The Goldenrod is waving at the Goldfinch on the sly;
The creek is calling faintly as it bubbles slowly by–
But the call of duty, stronger, forces me to live a lie.
I cannot heed the inner urge I feel in every pore
To throw the weight of worry off, and slam a mental door;
And, like the Butterfly, just flit away from things that bore
To feed on Nature’s choicer nectar, now and evermore.
by Ray Romine Sunday, September 14, 1947
