Sunday morning

I wake to the sound of the chapel Bell,
And I roll from my bed at dawning,
I taste of the cold, and I look at the stars,
And I look at the dim grey morning.
And the voice of the Devil prompts me loud
That serpent old and crafty,
And I seek again my blankets warm,
That are neither cold nor draughty.
Temptation conquers, I sink to rest,
And am wrapt in slumber quickly –
I wake again at the shout “Ten to!”
With a feeling wild and sickly.
I leap from my couch like a wounded doe,
I snatch a cold shower hasty,
I strive with an obstinate collar-stud,
My remarks are brief but tasty.
In vain my frenzied energy,
My recourse and dash in vain;
While yet I am only half-way dressed –
The implacable bell again!
My eager hands sink listless,
I bow to a fickle Fate;
My breath goes hissing outward,
“Too late,” I cry, “Too late!”

School poems