The count is paused that ever onward marks
Each hour into its proper use or waste;
This gap in purpose mixes lights and darks
When work and rest are, as preferred, so placed.
In such a nebulous assignment gleams
A promised respite from the forward march,
So disposition executes such dreams
As lie beneath ambition's prudent arch.
In this lacuna of the working year,
Strength may return as leisure girds the heart,
And options long-discarded reappear
Which seemed beyond a spent aspirant's art.
Change is as good as rest, or so they say,
But both are better, given holiday.