Waiting

By Bellows, John Adams

Book Id: WPLBN0000706885
Format Type: PDF eBook:
File Size: 0.1 MB
Reproduction Date: 2007

Title:	Waiting
Author:	Bellows, John Adams
Volume:
Language:	English
Subject:	Fiction, Poetry, Verse drama
Collections:	Poetry Collection
Historic Publication Date:
Publisher:	World Public Library Association


Citation APA MLA Chicago Adams Bellows, B. J. (n.d.). Waiting. Retrieved from http://gutenberg.cc/

Description
Poetry

Excerpt
Excerpt: And sharp as sword's clash came the one word, Wait! // Wait? He had waited years. The soft-eyed spring, // Crowned with sweet daisies and forget-me-nots, // The June, with roses slumbering in her hair, // The blithe October, with his grape-stained face, // And winter, with a winding-sheet of snow, // Had passed him by with tiresome, steady pace, // Year after year, and found him waiting stil. // O God, 't is hard to wait! to stand one side // And see the noisy crowd go battling on; // To mark that other hands, less strong than his, // Grasp the bright crowns that gleam for him in vain; // To note the love-light shining in some face- // A face Madonna-like in its repose,- // And know that not for him was human love, // To yearn and long and pray for-yet to wait. // Once he had toiled for gold: had watched the pile // Of glittering coin grow 'neath his stealthy touch; // Had envied e'en the happy summer fields, // The buttercups that sparkled here and there; // Had measured with the yard the rainbow arch, // And coined his life out till it seemed spun gold. // And then came loss by flood and field and fire; // The storm-winds beat upon his earthly home, // The red flames crackled 'round his shining store, // With impish laughter clapping their red hands; // And in and through and over all, His voice, // Saying, Be still, and know that I am God! // This is the end-stand back and humbly wait! // Then he had lived for fame: had sold himself // To what he called the people. And the world- // The busy, heartless world that stands one side, // And claps or frowns as suits its whim the best- // Cheered on, cried Good! and Brave philanhropist! // This man has packed the truth into a shell, // Which - look you - now he offers us to crack; // We'll give him honors and a seat of state. // Ah! he had labored nights, and watched the hours // Creep, heavy-footed , down the halls of time; // Had heard the deep bells on the frosty air // Ring out the hours, and then had gone to rest // With aching head and eyes too dull for sight; // And all for what? To see the great wave turn // And beat him back up on the barren shore; // To hear men praise another - yes, and jeer // And call him fool, whom yesterday the fates // Had semed to beckon on with waving hands, // And jeweled hair, and gleams of flashing eyes; // And then that word, as if an angel spoke,- // Solemn, yet not without its comfort, too, // The peace of that word fell upon him- Wait! // The June was with him. All the summer air // Was full of fragrance blown from the sweet-brier, // And rich with melody that ne'er was wrought // By cunningest musicians; humming bees // Rocked in the golden heart of flowers all day; // And when the night climbed up the sunset hills, // Leaving behind her train of silver stars, // The ghostly moon shone down through linden-trees, // And God's great peace found rest within his soul. // And June and roses and the birds brought love. // Oh, she was fair as lily on its stalk, // Or sweet white clover which the zephyr bends, // With face that soothed you like a low, sweet psalm // To mark her saint or else some pure madonna. // The June had faded, and the autunm winds // Rustled the dead leaves round a new-made grave, // O'er which a marble angel drooped her wings. // The old, old story, old as death and time, // The one is taken and the other left, // While to his heart descend the solemn words, // Thy time shall come; not now, but quickly. Wait! // The slow years dragged along, month after month, // Week following week; and each slow-footed day // Found him the same, yet changed; the country folk // Told tales of how much good he did the poor, // How kind he was, how gently soft he spoke, // Most often, too, to children, and to those // Whom grief had touched; and oftentimes, they said, // His face was as an angel's, with the light // That never shone on land nor yet on sea // About his eyes; a certain longing, too, // As if he hoped for something that should be, // If not on earth, yet in eternity. // They say his death was like a little child's. // The snow was hovering in the wintry air, // The winds were chanting in the leafless trees // A solemn music; and as the red sun // Sank 'neath the hills, he turned away his face, // 2 // The sweet smile haunting still the kindly lips // And tender eyes, and cried, At last! at last // The watch is over! and then fell asleep. // John Adams Bellows...