Here you will find thePoemMorningof poet John Crowe Ransom
THE skies were jaded, while the famous sun Slack of his office to confute the fogs Lay sick abed; but I, inured to duty, Sat for my food. Three hours each day we souls, Who might be angels but are fastened down With bodies, most infuriating freight, Sit fattening these frames and skeletons With filthy food, which they must cast away Before they feed again.
