The Destiny-Maker
She came; and I who linger’d there,
I saw that she was very fair;
And, with my sighs that pride suppress’d,
There rose a trembling wish for rest.
But I, who had my own design
For destiny that should be mine,
I turn’d me to my task and wrought,
And so forgot the passing thought.
She paused; and I who question’d there,
I heard she was as good as fair;
And in my soul a still, small voice
Enjoin’d me not to check my choice.
But I, who had my own design
For destiny that should be mine,
I bade the gentle guardian down,
And strove to think about renown.
She left; and I who wander, fear
There comes no more to see or hear;
Those walls that ward my paradise
Are very high, nor open twice.
And I, who had my own design
For destiny that should be mine,
Can only wait without the gate
And sit and sigh—“Too late! too late!”