"My soul doth wait.
Too long it struggled sore,
And sought to outreach the powers that were its gift,
Craving the guerdon ere the race was run,—
O'erwrought by the heavenly vision, strained and yearned
To win Godlikeness in the mortal clay,—
Till now it tires, and sinks beside the way,
And finds itself at last, blind, lame, and weak,
Broken in will, a foolish, erring child.
"Yet this it knows.
his hath it learned at least,—
Plucked it, a shining gem. from out the stony path,—
That God is over all.
His days, His ways, are long;
They ask no anxious haste,—ask only faith,
And patience for all truth, though clouded yet,
And courage to the end, or far, or near.
"And so,—
Knowing the vision true
(Though past and dim, and veiled in incompleteness),—
And knowing God is God,—enough for now,—
My tired soul waiteth for the fuller light,
And resteth in the darkness, as, at night,
One lieth down to sleep till day shall come."
