Bide your time, my love. Don’t count

The hours out, for it will come.

Until the sun, at last, finds out

Its end under the earth,

He will wait.


Even after, ever after this,

Until the final act of night

Is written in the sky and its

Conclusive will made clear,

He will wait.


Even as the frost clings shattered

About the broken earth, its glass

In lost aloneness faintly scattered

All around, through eager cold,

He will wait:


And, forgotten every day,

But always at hand at that last moment;

As even you forget that patient,

Dear devoted death might save you,

He will wait.




Sometimes, devotion is uncalled for and unwanted. 




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