The Wait

Dark is the day that speaks of night,
Darker the heart that longs,
Dark is the soul who with battered might,
Waits for his gentle song,

Who patience is a virtue cursed,
For pain is by the second,
To yearn to hear to know the worst,
To leap at every beckon,

It is a wait that murders hope,
A slow and gasping death,
By and by the soul will cope,
But torture is the pull of breath,

Yet to hope will fingers grasp,
And to faith embrace the heart,
And wait will the soul with hands in clasp,
For but Death will they do part.