Its partly elusive outlines add
to its charm. Its balance between hint and affirmation; its faith
in universal forces, and its tender yet virile expression, are all
shining qualities, apparent to the critical, and hypnotic to the
general, reader. There is nothing in it that need even stop at
"heaven's gate." It permits the deserving reader by happy instinct
to go through that portal--without waiting outside to parade his
sect mark. But the force of the poem and catholicity of its
sanctions are either utterly destroyed or ridiculously enfeebled,
by capping it with a sectarian and narrowly interpreted climax.
Although the poem is so well known, I shall quote it here in the
form preferred by its author;--
WAITING
Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays,
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid th' eternal ways,
And what is mine shall know my face.
Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me;
No wind can drive my bark astray,
Nor change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years;
My heart shall reap where it hath sown,
And garner up its fruit of tears.
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