What use has patience,
Won with such difficulty?
Forced out in such a sigh?
The heart in its stations
Has need of patience,
Holding through night and day
Solitary monologue,
Systole and diastole,
Two surly words that say
Each to each in the breast:
“Solid flesh, fluttering soul,
Troubles and fears, troubles and fears
Quick hope, long delay,
Where is rest? Where is rest?”
Prologue and epilogue
Reiterated in the breast
For thirty, forty, fifty years.
The heart in its stations
Has need of patience.
Patience wearies of itself
Impatient patience,
For itself can find no use
But to rehearse upon the shelf
Its hackneyed stations,
And so would end the long abuse,
Make each breath its parting breath,
Die in pain, be born in pain,
And to love at last attain:
Love to whom all things are well,
Love that turns all things to ease,
The life that fleets before the eye,
And the motionless isle of death:
That tunes the tedious miseries
And even patience makes to please;
Love to whom the sorrows tell
Their abysmal dreams and cry:
“Weave the spell! Weave the spell!
Make us well.”