 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
VAIN WAITING.
One waits and watches all his days away
For what may never come. So looks alone
Some man, upon a desert island thrown,
For sails that pass not; till, too faint to pray,
He folds his hands, and waits the eventful day
When Death, unintercepted, claims his own,
Bids hope lie down by fear, stills the long moan,
And folds the weary feet, no more to stray.
For what may never come. So looks alone
Some man, upon a desert island thrown,
For sails that pass not; till, too faint to pray,
He folds his hands, and waits the eventful day
When Death, unintercepted, claims his own,
Bids hope lie down by fear, stills the long moan,
And folds the weary feet, no more to stray.
None knew of his sad life and death, till, lo,
Men voyaging from afar, by fierce winds driven,
Cast anchor on that isle, where tempest-riven
They see a log-propped hut, by which they know
That one has lived and died there, hoped and striven;
They shed their unavailing tears and go.
Men voyaging from afar, by fierce winds driven,
Cast anchor on that isle, where tempest-riven
They see a log-propped hut, by which they know
That one has lived and died there, hoped and striven;
They shed their unavailing tears and go.
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |