Vigilate Itaque
THE restless years that come and go,
The cruel years so swift and slow,
Once in our lives perchance will show
What they can give that we may know;
Too soon perchance, or else too late;
We may look back or we may wait;
The years are incompassionate,
And who shall touch the robe of fate?
Once only; haply if we keep
Watch with our lamps and do not sleep,
Our eyes shall, when the night is deep,
Behold the bridegroom’s face,—and weep.
Alas! for better far it were
That Love were heedless of our prayer
Than that his glory he should bare
And show himself to our despair.
Better to wander till we die
And never come the door anigh,
Than weeping sore without to lie
And get no answer to our cry.
O child! the night is cold and blind,
The way is rough with rain and wind,
Narrow and steep and hard to find;
But I have found thee—love, be kind.
J. B. B. Nichols.