Patience, Hard Thing

    Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,

    But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks

    Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks;

    To do without, take tosses, and obey.

    Rare patience roots in these, and, these away,

    Nowhere.   Natural heart’s ivy, Patience masks

    Our ruins of wrecked past purpose.   There she basks

    Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day.

     

    We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills

    To bruise them dearer.  Yet the rebellious wills

    Of us we do bid God bend to him even so.

    And where is he who more and more distils

    Delicious kindness?—He is patient.  Patience fills

    His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know.

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