Somewhere past sheer exhaustion the body must feel
At the end of a good day. It means what was done
Was worthwhile in its doing, whatever the deed.
If I work out the body until it will plead
For relief from hard duty, would I give it none?
Upon its proper rest it will bounce back with zeal.
If it isn’t complaining it’s not being used.
Then the mind, without knowing, engages in thought
Until feelings about what I’m thinking become
Excellent at complaining. I’ll stay away from
Rationalization and be knowingly caught
In a feeling neurosis, uptight and confused.
When I sleep I should not sleep. In fact, I must die
To the old self completed to be born once more
In refreshing magnificence for the new day.
I don’t need a vacation if I live this way.
Anything done with vigor cannot be a chore.
What I do I’ll enjoy and not think about why.
Preservation is proper for things that are dead.
Life can only be nourished and put to good use.
If it is not performing in some moving way
The bored body will buckle. The price that I pay
Is to keep it complaining. The work I produce
Is then worthy and great even if it’s not read.