Because our time on Earth decays,
and no one knows just why we’re born,
we place our promises in lays
with which we earnestly our days
adorn.
We pledge, for instance, not to hate.
Nor, further, shall we ever scorn
nor blame nor otherwise berate
our modest home, our simple plate,
our prickly thorn.
We promise that we won’t neglect
such goods as fall from plenty’s horn.
We pledge to them our long respect,
not suffering that they’ll be wrecked
or more than lightly worn.
We say we’ll cultivate our best
and have our worst desires shorn.
We promise that we’ll take our rest
when east has given up to west
and sinks beneath the fading corn.
We pledge that, though we slipped today,
we’ll be more mindful in the morn.
Despite our errors, come what may,
we know that we’ll reclaim our way –
that middle path from which we’re often torn.