I almost never say my prayers, With smoothly folded eyes So many prayers go blundering Each day to paradise. I'd think that God would tire so Of prayers all neat and trim, When rows and rows of them each day March stiffly up to Him. I wait until some cool, fresh dawn When He goes down our walk, And then I run and slip my hand Within His hand and talk. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POETICAL ABSTRACTS: 2. METAPHYSICAL by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE SITTING by CECIL DAY LEWIS TO SAMUEL COLERIDGE UPON HEARING HIS 'SOME I FEEL LIKE A MOTHERLESS..' by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON AGING TOGETHER by CLARENCE MAJOR |