All things, they say, come home to those that wait,
Riches, power, fame, lost fortune, hope deferred,
Health to our friends, ill hap to those we hate,
Even love, that glorious paradisal bird,
The woman unattained, whose thought has stirred
Desire to its last chord importunate;
All shall be ours (so runs the common word)
If but our patience lag not on our fate.
--O, indigent consoling, even if true!
Crumbs for the hungry, who thus fasting live
And die deceived in impotence of bliss!
And we, the god--like fortune--favoured few,
Full dowered of joy? What ransom shall we give,
In thanks to Heaven, who did not wait to kiss?
Wilfrid Scawen Blunt