Waiting is terrible. And yet I know
That I have waited many times before.
In vanity and hopelessness I go
From dark to darker and to darkest door.
And yet there is a difference. For I hear
Another voice, still faint, perhaps, that sings
An ancient melody. The cries of fear
Are slightly softened by the stir of wings.
Maybe there is an end to waiting. He
Who promised to return may yet arise
From what appeared as death. He still may be
What never was begun and never dies.
Perhaps there was a time, so long ago
It is not half remembered, when I fled,
Too soon to see the fearful shadows go,
And look upon the living, not the dead.
Let me not lose the tiny spark of trust
That sprang to sudden life so lately born.
Perhaps the living never fell to dust.
Perhaps there never was a need to mourn.
Let me remember. For it yet may be
It was not as I thought. The dying rose,
And maybe, in my haste, I did not see
A circle not begun needs not to close.