It’s hurry to bed, and it’s hurry to rise.

It’s hurry to dress, wipe the sleep from your eyes.

It’s hurry to school, and hurry straight home.

I’m supposed to hurry when I need to roam.

How can you hurry to watch butterflies?

And can you look fast at bright evening skies?

How can you rush, watching bugs crawl and climb?

And hurrying to sleep leaves no happy-thought time.

I’m puzzled with grown-ups who hurry so fast.

Don’t they know lots of wonderful things can slip past?

So I hurry quite slowly when nobody sees,

Taking time to look long at the creatures in trees.

I run, not too quickly, when whippoorwills sing;

I never go fast, slowing down in my swing.

And I pray slowly, talking with Father above.

It takes time to be grateful, to feel, and to love.

Illustrated by Ralph Barksdale