Oh gentle Patience, plodding slow the way!
Thou sober-robed one, no light is shed
Of holy aureole around thy head,
To show thou art a saint of heavenly sway!
We love the winged ones, and would array
Ourselves beside the glowing Faith, deep-eyed,
And fly with Hope to yonder mountain side;
For Patience is a homely maid, we say.
But ah, the hour when heavy shadows fall,
And sore feet stumble; when we cannot see
Fair Hope, or Faith, but doubt and darkness, all!
Aye, then, through night and gloom shines gloriously
Thy simple face; and sweet the tender call,
" My steps alone are slow enough for thee!"
