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Lord, when the clock strikes Telling the time with cold tinAnd I sit hooded in this lectern Waiting for the monks to come, I see the red cheeses, and bowls All smile with milk in ranks upon their tables.
Light fills my proper globe(I have one light to read byWith a little, tinkling chain)
And the monks come down the cloister With robes as voluble as water. I do not see them but I hear their waves.
It is winter, and my hands prepare To turn the pages of the saints: And to the trees Thy moon has frozen on the windows My tongue shall sing Thy Scripture.
Then the monks pause upon the step (With me here in this lecternAnd Thee there on Thy crucifix) And gather little pearls of water on their fingers' ends Smaller than this my psalm.
Excerpted from Dialogues with Silence: Prayers and Drawings by Thomas Merton All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.