WE have not learned the patient ways to keep, We ask the crown but chafe beneath the cross Of its attainment. Till the dregs of dross Be worn away, no golden things we reap; Time loves not haste. The sordid years are deep With hidden treasure. Oh, the sorry loss, Weaving our webs with time's unlovely floss — Patterns that make the Master Weaver weep! Ah, well He knew the spirit's patient ways And how to bide His time. Think! thirty years Of waiting ere He entered on the days Of ministry. Why should our future fears Make us so restless? Patience's voice allays All discord in the soul of him who hears. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: JOSEPH DIXON by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE LONELY DEATH by ADELAIDE CRAPSEY TWO LIVES: CONCLUSION. INDIAN SUMMER by WILLIAM ELLERY LEONARD THE LAND O' THE LEAL by CAROLINA OLIPHANT NAIRNE TO THEOPHILE GAUTIER by THEODORE FAULLAIN DE BANVILLE |