The Words And The Works Poem by John Bliven Morin

He sat across the aisle from me
On the train to New London;
His clerical collar and the Bible he held
Proclaimed him to be a clergyman.

He was reading the old Book
As we left Union Station,
Bright and alive with people
In bright-colored scarves,
Carrying gaily dressed packages
For their loved ones on Christmas.

He was reading as we passed through
Villages and towns, tinseled and lit
For the holiday season,
And, as we passed near to the sea,
The rolling breakers on the icy shores
Formed clouds of spray in the winter air.

He was reading as we passed through woods
Of beech and pine and snow-white birch,
Bedecked with the falling snow.
From his fallow field a farmer waved
To everyone aboard, his holiday cheer.

He was reading so intently he nearly missed his stop;
“Old Lyme station, ” the conductor proclaimed,
And had to repeat “Old Lyme” again,
And at last the man of God arose and departed,
His precious Bible tucked under an arm
As he stepped down to the platform
And, puffing little clouds in the frigid air,
Moved briskly and hurriedly away.

I couldn’t help but reflect how devoutly
He read that Grand Old Tome the entire way,
Devouring the word of God and missing entirely
All of God’s miraculous creation we had passed
Throughout the miles of our journey.