ALL things, they say, come home to those that wait, Riches, power, fame, lost fortune, hope deferred, Health to our friends, ill hap to those we hate, Even love, that glorious paradisal bird, The woman unattained, whose thought has stirred Desire to its last chord importunate; All shall be ours (so runs the common word) If but our patience lag not on our fate. —O, indigent consoling, even if true! Crumbs for the hungry, who thus fasting live And die deceived in impotence of bliss! And we, the god-like fortune-favoured few, Full dowered of joy? What ransom shall we give, In thanks to Heaven, who did not wait to kiss? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JOHN CABANIS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE FLAG GOES BY by HENRY HOLCOMB BENNETT A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 54 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN WRITTEN FOR AN ALBUM by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD |