105 Enduring Poems About Patience

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Here are my favorite poems about patience categorized:

  • Short poems about patience
  • Famous poems about patience
  • Poems about patience and love
  • Poems about patience and understanding

So if you want the best poems about patience, then you’re in the right place.

Let’s get started!

105 Best Poems About Patience (Handpicked)
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Enduring Poems About Patience

Journey through an enchanting collection of carefully selected poems that beautifully capture the essence of patience, each verse a testament to the art of waiting, endurance, and the profound wisdom it imparts on the human spirit.

Within our curated selection, you will discover poetic gems that transport you to a realm of serenity, where time slows and patience becomes a virtuous dance between hope and resilience, exploring the intricate emotions that accompany waiting for moments of understanding and growth.

With our handpicked assortment, immerse yourself in the captivating world of patience, where words gracefully weave tales of fortitude, offering solace and inspiration to navigate life’s journey with grace and unwavering composure.

Let’s get started!

My #1 Favorite Poem About Patience

Tale of a girl with an owl in a mystical forest

“Patience” by D.H. Lawrence

A wind comes from the north
Blowing little flocks of birds
Like spray across the town,
And a train, roaring forth,
Rushes stampeding down
With cries and flying curds
Of steam, out of the darkening north.
Whither I turn and set
Like a needle steadfastly,
Waiting ever to get
The news that she is free;
But ever fixed, as yet,
To the lode of her agony.

Short Poems About Patience

A woman in a white dress in the middle of the forest

“He seeketh Comfort in Patience” by Sir Thomas Wyatt

Patience! for I have wrong
And dare not shew wherein;
Patience shall be my song;
Since Truth can nothing win.
Patience then for this fit;
Hereafter comes not yet.

“Respice Finem Epigram” by Francis Quarles

My soul, sit thou a patient looker-on;
Judge not the play before the play is done:
Her plot hath many changes; every day
Speaks a new scene; the last act crowns the play.

“Patience: Or, Comforts In Crosses” by Robert Herrick

Abundant plagues I late have had,
Yet none of these have made me sad:
For why? My Saviour with the sense
Of suff’ring gives me patience.

Sensual young lady among the greenery

“The Impatient Maid” by George Peele

When as the rye reach’d to the chin,
And chop cherry, chop cherry ripe within,
Strawberries swimming in the cream,
And schoolboys playing in the stream;
Then O, then O, then O, my true love said,
Till that time come again
She could not live a maid!

“Fatal Love” by Matthew Prior

Poor Hal caught his death standing under a spout
Expecting till midnight when Nan would come out;
But fatal his patience, as cruel the dame,
And cursed was the weather that quench’d the man’s flame.
Whoe’er thou art that reads these moral lines,
Make love at home, and go to bed betimes.

“Demand for Courage” by Francis Quarles

Thy life’s a warfare, thou a soldier art;
Satan’s thy foeman, and a faithful heart
Thy two-edged weapon; patience is thy shield,
Heaven is thy chieftain, and the world thy field.
To be afraid to die, or wish for death,
Are words and passions of despairing breath.
Who doth the first the day doth faintly yield;
And who the second basely flies the field.

Young woman wearing a green dress explores a magical forest

“Patience In Princes” by Robert Herrick

Kings must not use the axe for each offence:
Princes cure some faults by their patience.

“Compensation” by Caroline Atherton Mason

Not in each shell the diver brings to air
Is found the priceless pearl, but only where
Mangled, and torn, and bruised well-nigh to death,
The wounded oyster draws its laboring breath.
O tired and suffering soul! gauge here your gain;
The pearl of patience is the fruit of pain.

“Riches and Poverty” by Robert Herrick

God could have made all rich, or all men poor;
But why He did not, let me tell wherefore:
Had all been rich, where then had patience been?
Had all been poor, who had His bounty seen?

Portrait of beautiful brunette woman walking in the garden with butterflies

“Hope And Patience” by George MacDonald

An unborn bird lies crumpled and curled,
A-dreaming of the world.

Round it, for castle-wall, a shell
Is guarding it well.

Hope is the bird with its dim sensations;
The shell that keeps it alive is Patience.

“Upon God” by Robert Herrick

God, when He takes my goods and chattels hence,
Gives me a portion, giving patience:
What is in God is God; if so it be
He patience gives, He gives Himself to me.

“His Weakness In Woes” by Robert Herrick

I cannot suffer; and in this my part
Of patience wants. Grief breaks the stoutest heart.

A young, red-haired elf waving a raincoat against the backdrop of autumn hills and a path that leaves at a distance. The wizard, like a bird, flaps her wings from the fabrics, in a white flying dress

“Felicity Knows No Fence” by Robert Herrick

Of both our fortunes good and bad we find
Prosperity more searching of the mind:
Felicity flies o’er the wall and fence,
While misery keeps in with patience.

“Persecutions Profitable” by Robert Herrick

Afflictions they most profitable are
To the beholder and the sufferer:
Bettering them both, but by a double strain,
The first by patience, and the last by pain.

“To Fortune” by Robert Herrick

Tumble me down, and I will sit
Upon my ruins, smiling yet;
Tear me to tatters, yet I’ll be
Patient in my necessity.
Laugh at my scraps of clothes, and shun
Me, as a fear’d infection;
Yet, scare-crow-like, I’ll walk as one
Neglecting thy derision.

Costume Play. Magnificent Crowned Forest Nymph with Flowery Golden Crown Posing in Summer Empty Forest Near Tree Stem.

“To Electra” by Robert Herrick

Shall I go to Love and tell,
Thou art all turned icicle?
Shall I say her altars be
Disadorn’d and scorn’d by thee?
O beware! in time submit;
Love has yet no wrathful fit:
If her patience turns to ire,
Love is then consuming fire.

“XXXVIII” by Emily Dickinson

A throe upon the features
A hurry in the breath,
An ecstasy of parting
Denominated “Death,” —

An anguish at the mention,
Which, when to patience grown,
I ‘ve known permission given
To rejoin its own.

“Epitaph” by Ralph Waldo Emerson

Bethink, poor heart, what bitter kind of jest
Mad Destiny this tender stripling played;
For a warm breast of maiden to his breast,
She laid a slab of marble on his head.
They say, through patience, chalk
Becomes a ruby stone;
Ah, yes! but by the true heart’s blood
The chalk is crimson grown.

Portrait of Beautiful Sensual Caucasian Girl in Green Decorated Dress Posing in Forest Outdoor.

“To Sylvia” by Robert Herrick

No more, my Silvia, do I mean to pray
For those good days that ne’er will come away.
I want belief; O gentle Silvia, be
The patient saint, and send up vows for me.

“February” by Sara Teasdale

They spoke of him I love
With cruel words and gay;
My lips kept silent guard
On all I could not say.
I heard, and down the street
The lonely trees in the square
Stood in the winter wind
Patient and bare.
I heard . . . oh voiceless trees
Under the wind, I knew
The eager terrible spring
Hidden in you.

Famous Poems About Patience

A young beautiful woman angel with white wings

“The Angel of Patience” by John Greenleaf Whittier

A Free Paraphrase of the German

To weary hearts, to mourning homes,
God’s meekest Angel gently comes
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again;
And yet in tenderest love, our dear
And Heavenly Father sends him here.

There’s quiet in that Angel’s glance,
There ‘s rest in his still countenance!
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,
Nor wounds with words the mourner’s ear;
But ills and woes he may not cure
He kindly trains us to endure.

Angel of Patience! sent to calm
Our feverish brows with cooling palm;
To lay the storms of hope and fear,
And reconcile life’s smile and tear;
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make our own our Father’s will.

O thou who mournest on thy way,
With longings for the close of day;
He walks with thee, that Angel kind,
And gently whispers, ‘Be resigned
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell
The dear Lord ordereth all things well!’

“Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press” by William Shakespeare

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;
Lest sorrow lend me words and words express
The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
If I might teach thee wit, better it were,
Though not to love, yet, love, to tell me so;
As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,
No news but health from their physicians know;
For it I should despair, I should grow mad,
And in my madness might speak ill of thee:
Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,
Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.
That I may not be so, nor thou belied,
Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

“That god forbid that made me first your slave” by William Shakespeare

That god forbid that made me first your slave,
I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,
Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure!
O, let me suffer, being at your beck,
The imprison’d absence of your liberty;
And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,
Without accusing you of injury.
Be where you list, your charter is so strong
That you yourself may privilege your time
To what you will; to you it doth belong
Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime.
I am to wait, though waiting so be hell’
Not blame your pleasure, be it ill or well.

Beautiful boudoir Bride in bathrobe dress on landscape background forest

“Patience” by Paul Hamilton Hayne

She hath no beauty in her face
Unless the chastened sweetness there,
And meek long-suffering, yield a grace
To make her mournful features fair:—
Shunned by the gay, the proud, the young,
She roams through dim, unsheltered ways;
Nor lover’s vow, nor flatterer’s tongue
Brings music to her sombre days:—
At best her skies are clouded o’er,
And oft she fronts the stinging sleet,
Or feels on some tempestuous shore
The storm-waves lash her naked feet.
Where’er she strays, or musing stands
By lonesome beach, by turbulent mart,
We see her pale, half-tremulous hands
Crossed humbly o’er her aching heart!
Within, a secret pain she bears,—
pain too deep to feel the balm
An April spirit finds in tears;
Alas! all cureless griefs are calm!
Yet in her passionate strength supreme,
Despair beyond her pathway flies,
Awed by the softly steadfast beam
Of sad, but heaven-enamored eyes!
Who pause to greet her, vaguely seem
Touched by fine wafts of holier air;
As those who in some mystic dream
Talk with the angels unaware!

“A Dos’t O’ Blues” by James Whitcomb Riley

I’ got no patience with blues at all!
And I ust to kindo talk
Aginst ’em, and claim, ‘tel along last Fall,
They was none in the fambly stock;
But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy,
That visited us last year,
He kindo convinct me differunt
While he was a-stayin’ here.

Frum ever’-which way that blues is from,
They’d tackle him ever’ ways;
They’d come to him in the night, and come
On Sundays, and rainy days;
They’d tackle him in corn-plantin’ time,
And in harvest, and airly Fall,
But a dose ‘t of blues in the wintertime,
He ‘lowed, was the worst of all!

Said all diseases that ever he had –
The mumps, er the rheumatiz –
Er ever’-other-day-aigger’s bad
Purt’ nigh as anything is! –
Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck,
Er a felon on his thumb, –
But you keep the blues away from him,
And all o’ the rest could come!

And he’d moan, “They’s nary a leaf below!
Ner a spear o’ grass in sight!
And the whole wood-pile’s clean under snow!
And the days is dark as night!
You can’t go out – ner you can’t stay in –
Lay down – stand up – ner set!”
And a tetch o’ regular tyfoid-blues
Would double him jest clean shet!

I writ his parents a postal-kyard,
He could stay ‘tel Spring-time come;
And Aprile first, as I rickollect,
Was the day we shipped him home!
Most o’ his relatives, sence then,
Has either give up, er quit,
Er jest died off; but I understand
He’s the same old color yit!

“On A Political Prisoner” by William Butler Yeats

She that but little patience knew,
From childhood on, had now so much
A grey gull lost its fear and flew
Down to her cell and there alit,
And there endured her fingers’ touch
And from her fingers ate its bit.
Did she in touching that lone wing
Recall the years before her mind
Became a bitter, an abstract thing,
Her thought some popular enmity:
Blind and leader of the blind
Drinking the foul ditch where they lie?
When long ago I saw her ride
Under Ben Bulben to the meet,
The beauty of her country-side
With all youth’s lonely wildness stirred,
She seemed to have grown clean and sweet
Like any rock-bred, sea-borne bird:
Sea-borne, or balanced on the air
When first it sprang out of the nest
Upon some lofty rock to stare
Upon the cloudy canopy,
While under its storm-beaten breast
Cried out the hollows of the sea.

beautiful girl in a red dress standing in the thickets of the jungle, an unusual make-up, fashionable toning

“Patience” by William James Linton

Be patient, O be patient! Put your ear against the earth;
Listen there how noiselessly the germ o’ the seed has birth;
How noiselessly and gently it upheaves its little way
Till it parts the scarcely-broken ground, and the blade stands up in the day.

Be patient, O be patient! the germs of mighty thought
Must have their silent undergrowth, must underground be wrought;
But, as sure as ever there’s a Power that makes the grass appear,
Our land shall be green with Liberty, the blade-time shall be here.

Be patient, O be patient! go and watch the wheat-ears grow,
So imperceptibly that ye can mark nor change nor throe:
Day after day, day after day till the ear is fully grown;
And then again day after day, till the ripened field is brown.

Be patient, O be patient! though yet our hopes are green,
The harvest-field of Freedom shall be crowned with the sunny sheen.
Be ripening, be ripening! mature your silent way
Till the whole broad land is tongued with fire on Freedom’s harvest day.

“The Lover who cannot prevail must needs have Patience” by Sir Thomas Wyatt

Patience for my device;
Impatience for your part!
Of contraries the guise
Must needs be overthwart.
Patience! for I am true;
The contrary for you.
Patience! a good cause why!
You have no cause at all;
Trust me, that stands awry
Perchance may sometime fall.
Patience then say, and sup
A taste of Patience cup.
Patience! no force for that
Yet brush your gown again.
Patience! spurn not there at;
Lest folk perceive your pain.
Patience at my pleasure,
When yours hath no measure.
The other was for me,
This Patience is for you,
Change when ye list let see,
For I have ta’en a new.
Patience with a good will
Is easy to fulfil.

“When Fortune smiles not, only Patience comforteth” by Sir Thomas Wyatt

Patience! though I have not
The thing that I require;
I must, of force, God wot,
Forbear my most desire,
For no ways can I find
To sail against the wind.
Patience! do what they will
To work me woe or spite;
I shall content me still
To think both day and night;
To think, and hold my peace,
Since there is no redress.
Patience! withouten blame,
For I offended nought;
I know they know the same,
Though they have changed their thought.
Was ever thought so moved,
To hate that it hath loved?
Patience of all my harm,
For Fortune is my foe;
Patience must be the charm
To heal me of my woe.
Patience without offence
Is a painful Patience.

Fairytale tropicana wild sexy woman enjoy sunshine relax harmony reboot meditation. black long hair fly fluttering waving in wind. Backdrop green bamboo tropics Summer. spring magic art fantasy dress

“Milton’s Prayer of Patience” by Elizabeth Lloyd Howell

I am old and blind!
Men point at me as smitten by God’s frown;
Afflicted and deserted of my kind,
Yet am I not cast down.

I am weak, yet strong;
I murmur not that I no longer see;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father Supreme! to Thee.

All-merciful One!
When men are furthest, then art Thou most near,
When friends pass by, my weaknesses to shun,
Thy chariot I hear.

Thy glorious face
Is leaning toward me, and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,—
And there is no more night.

On my bended knee
I recognize Thy purpose clearly shown;
My vision Thou hast dimmed, that I may see
Thyself—Thyself alone.

I have naught to fear:
This darkness is the shadow of Thy wing;
Beneath it I am almost sacred—here
Can come no evil thing.

Oh, I seem to stand
Trembling, where foot of mortal ne’er hath been,
Wrapped in that radiance from the sinless land,
Which eye hath never seen!

Visions come and go:
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.

It is nothing now,
When heaven is opening on my sightless eyes,
When airs from Paradise refresh my brow,
That earth in darkness lies.

In a purer clime
My being fills with rapture,—waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit,—strains sublime
Break over me unsought.

Give me now my lyre!
I feel the stirrings of a gift divine:
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire
Lit by no skill of mine.

“That Patience alone can heal the Wound inflicted by Adversity” by Sir Thomas Wyatt

Patience of all my smart!
For Fortune is turned awry:
Patience must ease my heart,
That mourns continually.
Patience to suffer wrong
Is a Patience too long.
Patience to have a nay,
Of that I most desire;
Patience to have alway,
And ever burn like fire.
Patience without desart
Is grounder of my smart.
Who can with merry heart
Set forth some pleasant song,
That always feels but smart,
And never hath but wrong?
Yet patience evermore
Must heal the wound and sore.
Patience! to be content,
With froward Fortune’s train!
Patience, to the intent
Somewhat to slake my pain:
I see no remedy,
But suffer patiently.
To plain where is none ear
My chance is chanced so;
For it doth well appear
My Friend is turn’d my foe:
But since there is no defence,
I must take Patience.

“The Sonnets CXVI – Let me not to the marriage of true minds” by William Shakespeare

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error, and upon me prov’d,
I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d.

Top view through dry branches on a young woman in a carnival costume sits on the grass with her eyes closed. Halloween woman portrait.

“On His Blindness” by John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide,
Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He, returning, chide;
Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man’s work, or His own gifts; who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His state
Is kingly; thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.

“How do I Love thee?” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Poems About Patience and Love

beautiful medieval girl in a forest

“Patience” by William Chatterton Dix

“If Thou hadst come, our brother had not died.”
Thus one who loved, to One who came so late;
Yet not too late, had she but known the fate
Which soon should fill the mourners’ hearts with tide
Of holy joy. Now she would almost chide
Her awful Guest, as though His brief delay
Had quenched her love and driven faith away.
“If Thou hadst come,” oh could we only hide
Our heart’s impatience and with meekness stay
To hear the Voice of Wisdom ere we speak.
We mourn the past, the tomb, the buried dead,
And think of many a bitter thing to say,
While all the time True Love stands by so meek,
Waiting to lift anew the drooping head.

“Love, Hope, and Patience in Education” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

O’er wayward childhood would’st thou hold firm rule,
And sun thee in the light of happy faces;
Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces,
And in thine own heart let them first keep school.
For as old Atlas on his broad neck places
Heaven’s starry globe, and there sustains it; — so
Do these upbear the little world below
Of Education, — Patience, Love, and Hope.
Methinks, I see them group’d in seemly show,
The straiten’d arms upraised, the palms aslope,
And robes that touching as adown they flow,
Distinctly blend, like snow emboss’d in snow.

O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie,
Love too will sink and die.
But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive
From her own life that Hope is yet alive;
And bending o’er, with soul-transfusing eyes,
And the soft murmurs of the mother dove,
Woos back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies; —
Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love.

Yet haply there will come a weary day,
When overtask’d at length
Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way.
Then with a statue’s smile, a statue’s strength,
Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,
And both supporting does the work of both.

“Dialogue” by Walter Conrad Arensberg

Be patient, Life, when Love is at the gate,
And when he enters let him be at home.
Think of the roads that he has had to roam.
Think of the years that he has had to wait.

But if I let Love in I shall be late.
Another has come first—there is no room.
And I am thoughtful of the endless loom—
Let Love be patient, the importunate.

O Life, be idle and let Love come in,
And give thy dreamy hair that Love may spin.
But Love himself is idle with his song.
Let Love come last, and then may Love last long.

Be patient, Life, for Love is not the last.
Be patient now with Death, for Love has passed.

A young princess turns in a beautiful blue dress. The background is bright, golden autumn nature.

“Surprised by Joy—Impatient As the Wind” by William Wordsworth

Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom
But Thee, long buried in the silent Tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—
But how could I forget thee?—Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

“A Love Song” by Virna Sheard

Oh haste, my Sweet! Impatient now I wait,
The crescent moon swings low, it groweth late,
A night bird sings, of Life, and Love, and Fate!

Oh haste, my Sweet! Youth and its gladness goes,
Joy hath one summer time, like to the rose,
Love only lives through all the winter snows.

Then haste, my Sweet! These hours are all our own,
And see! A rose leaf on the night breeze blown!
For thee I wait–for thee I wait alone!

“The Liner” by John Le Gay Brereton

The foamy waves are swishing
As patiently we thud,
But O the wave of wishing
That surges in my blood!

Along the ocean’s rim, now,
With never-ceasing song,
I wish that I could swim now
And shove the boat along.

My heart is crying, tireless,
The word it has to say.
What need have we of wireless
Who know a better way?

The slow craft plunges nor’ward
And welters on the blue:
My thoughts are floating forward
And swooping home to you.

Your magic love is tingling
In every vein of me,
And you and I are mingling
In spite of rolling sea.

Yet O that I could borrow
That albatross’s flight!
To-morrow, Love, to-morrow
Is our supreme delight.

Portrait of a romantic girl, like a forest nymph, in a blooming garden with elements of phantasmagoria. The concept of fantasy, fairy tales.

“Sweet Impatience” by George Arnold

The sunlight glimmers dull and gray
Upon my wall to-day;
This summer is too long:
The hot days go
Weary and slow
As if time’s reckoning were perverse and wrong:
But when the flowers
Have faded, and their bloom has passed away,
Then shall my song
Be all of happier hours,
And more than one fond heart shall then be gay.
But song can never tell
How much I long to hear
One voice, that like the echo of a silver bell,
Unconscious, low, and clear,
Falls, as aforetime angel-voices fell
On Saint Cecilia’s ear:
And it will come again,
And I shall hear it, when
The droning summer bee forgets his song,
And frosty autumn crimsons hill and dell:
I shall not murmur, then,
“This summer is too long!”
The trellised grapes shall purple be
And all
The forest aisles reëcho merrily
The brown quail’s call,
And glossy chestnuts fall
In pattering plenty from the leafless tree
When autumn winds blow strong:
Then shall I see
Her worshipped face once more, and in its sunshine, I
Shall cease to sigh
“This summer is too long!”
Meanwhile, I wander up and down
The noisy town,
I miss the lithe form from my side,
The kind, caressing tone,
The gentle eyes
In whose soft depths so much of loving lies;
And lonely in the throng,—
Each jostling, bustling, grasping for his own,—
The weary words arise,
“This summer is too long!”
Haste, happy hours,—
Fade, tardy, lingering flowers!
Your fragrance has departed, long ago;
I yearn for cold winds, whistling through the ruined bowers,
For winter’s snow,
If with them, she
May come to teach my heart a cheerier song,
And lovingly
Make me forget all weariness and severance and wrong,
Whispering close and low,
“Here are we still together, Love, although
The summer was so long!”

“Outward Bound” by Henry Austin Dobson


“Quid fles, Asterie, quem tibi candidi
Primo restituent vere Favonii–

Come, Laura, patience. Time and Spring
Your absent Arthur back shall bring,
Enriched with many an Indian thing
Once more to woo you;
Him neither wind nor wave can check,
Who, cramped beneath the “Simla’s” deck,
Still constant, though with stiffened neck,
Makes verses to you.

Would it were wave and wind alone!
The terrors of the torrid zone,
The indiscriminate cyclone,
A man might parry;
But only faith, or “triple brass,”
Can help the “outward-bound” to pass
Safe through that eastward-faring class
Who sail to marry.

For him fond mothers, stout and fair,
Ascend the tortuous cabin stair
Only to hold around his chair
Insidious sessions;
For him the eyes of daughters droop
Across the plate of handed soup,
Suggesting seats upon the poop,
And soft confessions.

Nor are these all his pains, nor most.
Romancing captains cease to boast–
Loud majors leave their whist–to roast
The youthful griffin;
All, all with pleased persistence show
His fate,–“remote, unfriended, slow,”–
His “melancholy” bungalow,–
His lonely tiffin.

In vain. Let doubts assail the weak;
Unmoved and calm as “Adam’s Peak,”
Your “blameless Arthur” hears them speak
Of woes that wait him;
Naught can subdue his soul secure;
“Arthur will come again,” be sure,
Though matron shrewd and maid mature
Conspire to mate him.

But, Laura, on your side, forbear
To greet with too impressed an air
A certain youth with chestnut hair,–
A youth unstable;
Albeit none more skilled can guide
The frail canoe on Thamis tide,
Or, trimmer-footed, lighter glide
Through “Guards” or “Mabel.”

Be warned in time. Without a trace
Of acquiescence on your face,
Hear, in the waltz’s breathing-space,
His airy patter;
Avoid the confidential nook;
If, when you sing, you find his look
Grow tender, close your music-book,
And end the matter.

“Astrophel and Stella – Sonnet LVI” by Philip Sidney

Fy, schoole of Patience, fy! your Lesson is
Far, far too long to learne it without booke:
What, a whole weeke without one peece of looke,
And thinke I should not your large precepts misse!
When I might reade those Letters faire of blisse
Which in her face teach vertue, I could brooke
Somwhat thy leaden counsels, which I tooke
As of a friend that meant not much amisse.
But now that I, alas, doe want her sight,
What, dost thou thinke that I can euer take
In thy cold stuffe a flegmatike delight?
No, Patience; if thou wilt my good, then make
Her come and heare with patience my desire,
And then with patience bid me beare my fire.

Beautiful red haired girl in white vintage dress and wreath of flowers standing under the tree and looking at camera. Fairytale story.

“Epilogue” by D.H. Lawrence

Patience, little Heart.
One day a heavy, June-hot woman
Will enter and shut the door to stay.

And when your stifling heart would summon
Cool, lonely night, her roused breasts will keep the night at bay,
Sitting in your room like two tiger-lilies
Flaming on after sunset,
Destroying the cool, lonely night with the glow of their hot twilight;
There in the morning, still, while the fierce strange scent comes yet
Stronger, hot and red; till you thirst for the daffodillies
With an anguished, husky thirst that you cannot assuage,
When the daffodillies are dead, and a woman of the dog-days holds you in gage.
Patience, little Heart.

“Come Thou” by Mary Baker Eddy

Come, in the minstrel’s lay;
When two hearts meet,
And true hearts greet,
And all is morn and May.
Come Thou! and now, anew,
To thought and deed
Give sober speed,
Thy will to know, and do.
Stay! till the storms are o’er—
The cold blasts done,
The reign of heaven begun,
And Love, the evermore.
Be patient, waiting heart:
Light, Love divine
Is here, and thine;
You therefore cannot part.
“The seasons come and go:
Love, like the sea,
Rolls on with thee,—
But knows no ebb and flow.
“Faith, hope, and tears, triune,
Above the sod
Find peace in God,
And one eternal noon.”
Oh, Thou hast heard my prayer;
And I am blest!
This is Thy high behest:
Thou, here and everywhere.

“Nevermore” by Mary Baker Eddy

Are the dear days ever coming again,
As sweetly they came of yore,
Singing the olden and dainty refrain,
Oh, ever and nevermore?
Ever to gladness and never to tears,
Ever the gross world above;
Never to toiling and never to fears,
Ever to Truth and to Love?
Can the forever of happiness be
Outside this ever of pain?
Will the hereafter from suffering free
The weary of body and brain?
Weary of sobbing, like some tired child
Over the tears it has shed;
Weary of sowing the wayside and wild,
Watching the husbandman fled;
Nevermore reaping the harvest we deem,
Evermore gathering in woe—
Say, are the sheaves and the gladness a dream,
Or to the patient who sow?

Lynn, Mass., September 3, 1871.

Art photo fantasy woman queen standing in gothic autumn forest, white vintage style dress. Girl princess beauty face long wavy hair, elegant sexy bare open shoulders. Red orange yellow color dark tree

“Gitanjali 19” by Rabindranath Tagore

If thou speakest not I will fill my heart with thy silence and endure it. I will keep still and wait like the night with starry vigil and its head bent low with patience.

The morning will surely come, the darkness will vanish, and thy voice pour down in golden streams breaking through the sky.

Then thy words will take wing in songs from every one of my birds’ nests, and thy melodies will break forth in flowers in all my forest groves.

“The Broken Wheel” by Caroline Duer

Patience, poor heart ! To-night thou shalt have
rest —
Rest, that I buy thee at the price of life.
Let those with strength and courage stand the test,
Here will I end the strife.

Time’s haggard eyes hold many tears like me.
Not worth God’s smile in life — much less his
frown —
If, by its weight of wretchedness set free,
One heavy tear drop down.

Call you it sin, O seekers after Truth —
Sin, that I enter at Death’s open door ?
So be it. I was worthless from my youth :
What matters one sin more ?

But if my faults were great, my hopes were few :
Who can do battle with a breaking heart ?
I have deserted from the ranks, and you
Will take no rebel’s part.

I have made way for other fools to prate,
For other eyes to seek for what is not,
For other hearts to fight against their fate,
While youth’s wild blood is hot.

I but return to God life’s borrowed spark
(Doubtless there is a God in Israel) ;
My eyes are tired, and Death’s halls are dark :
May I sleep long and well.

“Some Day” by Kate Louise Wheeler

Some day, not far away,
In Heaven above,
Both you and I,
Who say the last good-bye,
Shall meet and love.

Some day, beyond life’s way
Of cares and tears,
Your soul and mine,
With Christ, the Soul divine,
Shall know no fears.

Some day, when others pray
With tear-stained eyes,
You’ll take my hand
And we shall understand
In Paradise.

Some day, when others stay
To do life’s part,
We’ll reach the goal
Each standing soul to soul,—
Not heart to heart.

Some day, when others say:—
“Their lot was sad,”
We’ll know the why;
In Heaven both you and I
Shall be more glad.

Some day, when earth is gay
On land and sea,
Beyond life’s shore
We two, who patience bore,
Shall thankful be.

Some day,—some brighter day
Than all the rest,
Both you and I
Shall say no more: “Good-bye,”
But:—“God knows best.”

A curly blonde girl in a luxurious blue dress sits on white stones against the backdrop of a fabulous landscape. River Mermaid near the lake with a waterfall.

“Calm” by Charles Baudelaire

Have patience, O my sorrow, and be still.
You asked for night: it falls: it is here.
A shadowy atmosphere enshrouds the hill,
to some men bringing peace, to others care.

While the vile human multitude
goes to earn remorse, in servile pleasure’s play,
under the lash of joy, the torturer, who
is pitiless, Sadness, come, far away:

Give me your hand. See, where the lost years
lean from the balcony in their outdated gear,
where regret, smiling, surges from the watery deeps.

Underneath some archway, the dying light
sleeps, and, like a long shroud trailing from the East,
listen, dear one, listen to the soft onset of night.

“Bringing Our Sheaves With Us” by Elizabeth Akers

The time for toil is past, and night has come—
The last and saddest of the harvest eves;
Worn out with labor, long and wearisome,
Drooping and faint, the reapers hasten home,
Each laden with his sheaves.
Last of the laborers, thy feet I gain,
Lord of the harvest! and my spirit grieves
That I am burdened not so much with grain
As with a heaviness of heart and brain;
Master, behold my sheaves.
Few, light, and worthless—yet their trifling weight
Through all my frame a weary aching leaves;
For long I struggled with my hapless fate,
And stayed and toiled till it was dark and late—
Yet these are all my sheaves.
Full well I know I have more tares than wheat,
Brambles and flowers, dry stalks and withered leaves;
Wherefore I blush and weep as at thy feet
I kneel down reverently and repeat,
“Master, behold my sheaves!”
I know these blossoms clustering heavily,
With evening dew upon their folded leaves,
Can claim no value or utility—
Therefore shall fragrancy and beauty be
The glory of my sheaves.
So do I gather strength and hope anew;
For well I know thy patient love perceives
Not what I did, but what I strove to do,
And though the full ripe ears be sadly few
Thou wilt accept my sheaves.

“The Dream” by Robert Herrick

Methought last night Love in an anger came
And brought a rod, so whipt me with the same;
Myrtle the twigs were, merely to imply
Love strikes, but ’tis with gentle cruelty.
Patient I was: Love pitiful grew then
And strok’d the stripes, and I was whole again.
Thus, like a bee, Love gentle still doth bring
Honey to salve where he before did sting.

young woman bride posing in beautiful dress

“Impatience” by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

How can I wait until you come to me?
The once fleet mornings linger by the way;
Their sunny smiles touched with malicious glee
At my unrest, they seem to pause, and play
Like truant children, while I sigh and say,
How can I wait?

How can I wait? Of old, the rapid hours
Refused to pause or loiter with me long;
But now they idly fill their hands with flowers,
And make no haste, but slowly stroll among
The summer blooms, not heeding my one song,
How can I wait?

How can I wait? The nights alone are kind;
They reach forth to a future day, and bring
Sweet dreams of you to people all my mind;
And time speeds by on light and airy wing.
I feast upon your face, I no more sing,
How can I wait?

How can I wait? The morning breaks the spell
A pitying night has flung upon my soul.
You are not near me, and I know full well
My heart has need of patience and control;
Before we meet, hours, days and weeks must roll.
How can I wait?

How can I wait? Oh, love, how can I wait
Until the sunlight of your eyes shall shine
Upon my world that seems so desolate?
Until your hand-clasp warms my blood like wine;
Until you come again, oh, Love of mine,
How can I wait?

“To G. M. T” by George MacDonald

The sun is sinking in the west,
Long grow the shadows dim;
Have patience, sister, to be blest,
Wait patiently for Him.

Thou knowest love, much love hast had,
Great things of love mayst tell,
Ought’st never to be very sad
For thou too hast lov’d well.

His house thou know’st, who on the brink
Of death loved more than thou,
Loved more than thy great heart can think,
And just as then loves now-

In that great house is one who waits
For thy slow-coming foot;
Glad is he with his angel-mates
Yet often listens mute,

For he of all men loves thee best:
He haunts the heavenly clock;
Ah, he has long been up and drest
To open to thy knock!

Fear not, doubt not because of those
On whom earth’s keen winds blow;
God’s love shames all our pitying woes,
Be ready thou to go.

Forsaken dream not hearts which here
Bask in no sunny shine;
Each shall one coming day be dear
To love as good as thine.

Poems About Patience and Understanding

Spring flowers queen

“Patience” by Emma Lazarus

The passion of despair is quelled at last;
The cruel sense of undeservèd wrong,
The wild self-pity, these are also past;
She knows not what may come, but she is strong;
She feels she hath not aught to lose nor gain,
Her patience is the essence of all pain….
There is a deeper pathos in the mild
And settled sorrow of the quiet eyes,
Than in the tumults of the anguish wild,
That made her curse all things beneath the skies;
No question, no reproaches, no complaint,
Hers is the holy calm of some meek saint.

“Content” by Thomas Dekker

Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet Content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O Punishment!
Dost laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers golden numbers?
O sweet Content, O sweet, O sweet Content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace,
Honest labour bears a lovely face.
Then hey noney, noney; hey noney, noney.
Canst drink the waters of the crisped spring?
O sweet Content!
Swim’st thou in wealth, yet sink’st in thine own tears?
O Punishment!
Then he that patiently Want’s burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king.
O sweet Content, O sweet, O sweet Content!
Work apace, apace, etc.

“The Artist” by Arthur Grissom

He wrought with patience long and weary years
Upon his masterpiece, entitled “Fate,”
And dreamed sweet dreams, the while his crust he ate,
And gave his work his soul, his strength, and tears.
His task complete at last, he had no fears
The world would not pronounce his genius great,
But poor, unknown—pray, what could he create?
The mad world laughed, and gave not praise, but jeers.
Impelled to ask wherein his work was wrong,
He sought, despairing, one whose art was dead,
But on whose brow were wreathed the bays of Fame:
The master gazed upon the picture long;
“It lacks one thing to make it great,” he said,
And signed the canvas with his own great name!

Art portrait of a beautiful young nymph in luxurious strapless ball dress growing into soft clouds. Her eyes closed. Fairytale concept.

“Patience Exhausted” by William McCarty

Columbia long, too long hath borne
The haughty Briton’s envious spite;
Resolved no more to bear their scorn,
She rises in her youthful might,
And calls her sons to brave the fight.
Enraged, they hear her mournful strains,
And swear to avenge her trampled right.
Look! where they spread her frontier plains,
And freely yield oblations from their generous veins!
Britain may urge the scalping-knife,
Exulting o’er the barbarous deed;
We scorn to stain our noble strife,
Or make the helpless victim bleed.
By virtue, once ourselves we freed,
And virtue still shall be our guide,
Though British gold—the traitor’s meed,
Should strive our country to divide:
For heaven-born justice is our safety and our pride.
Is there a wretch, so vile and base,
So lost to honour’s glorious charm,
Who sees his country spurn disgrace,
And will not lend his vigorous arm
To crush the foe that wills her harm?
O! may he never find a friend,
Whose converse might his bosom warm!
Nor, when distress his steps attend,
The feeling heart, that would its kind assistance lend!

“The Patience of Poverty” by Arthur Warren

Depart, ye discontents, like reprobates,
For Patience all adversities endures;
In rarest disposition imitates
Hearbe Panace, that all diseases cures,
Heales interne maladies of wounded minds,
And salves the sores that physicke salveless finds.
Credit not vaine Perswasion, that deludes
Fond Tractability with fallacies,
And such inducements forcibly intrudes
Into credulitie with sophistries,
That man, whom reason’s index should direct,
Suggested is—true judgement to neglect.
Aske Contentation, what’s felicity?
And aske Felicity, what is content?
Aske Life, what is the death of misery?
And aske dumbe Death, what makes life permanent?
Persue the contents of contented minde,
Thou nought but Patience registred shalt finde.
Discretion, censure, which is better found
Much to possesse, and nathlesse live in neede,
Or to enjoy but little, and abound,
So competence necessities may steede.
Brooks satisfie thirst with convenient store,
The spacious ocean’s liquid can no more.

“Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray” by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Patience, hard thing! the hard thing but to pray,
But bid for, Patience is! Patience who asks
Wants war, wants wounds; weary his times, his tasks;
To do without, take tosses, and obey.
Rare patience roots in these, and, these away,
Nowhere. Natural heart’s ivy, Patience masks
Our ruins of wrecked past purpose. There she basks
Purple eyes and seas of liquid leaves all day.
We hear our hearts grate on themselves: it kills
To bruise them dearer. Yet the rebellious wills
Of us we do bid God bend to him even so.
And where is he who more and more distils
Delicious kindness?—He is patient. Patience fills
His crisp combs, and that comes those ways we know.

Beautiful girl model blonde summer outdoors in the crown. Red lips, manicure, smoky eyes. photo art, soft focus.

“Patience” by Pamelia Sarah Vining Yule

I saw how the patient Sun
Hasted untiringly
The self-same old race to run;
Never aspiringly
Seeking some other road
Through the blue heaven
Than the one path which God
Long since had given;—
And I said, ‘Patient Sun,
Teach me my race to run,
Even as thine is done,
Steadfastly ever;
Weakly, impatiently
Wandering never!’
I saw how the patient Earth
Sat uncomplainingly,
While in his boisterous mirth,
Winter disdainingly
Mocked at her steadfast trust
That from its icy chain
Spring her imprisoned dust
Soon would release again;—
And I said, ‘Patient Earth,
Biding thy hour of dearth,
Waiting the voice of mirth
Soon to rewaken,
Teach me like thee to trust,
Steadfast, unshaken!’

“Pebbles” by Frank Dempster Sherman

Out of a pellucid brook
Pebbles round and smooth I took :
Like a jewel, every one
Caught a color from the sun, —
Ruby red and sapphire blue,
Emerald and onyx too,
Diamond and amethyst, —
Not a precious stone I missed :
Gems I held from every land
In the hollow of my hand.
Workman Water these had made ;
Patiently through sun and shade,
With the ripples of the rill
He had polished them until,
Smooth, symmetrical and bright,
Each one sparkling in the light
Showed within its burning heart
All the lapidary’s art ;
And the brook seemed thus to sing :
Patience conquers everything !

“America” by Florence Earle Coates

Patient she is—long-suffering, our Land;
Wise with the strength of one whose soul is calm
Weights and considers, and would understand
Ere it gives way to anger: fearing wrong
Of her own doing more than any planned
Against her peace by others deemed more strong.

Mother of many children alien born,
Whom she has gathered into her kind arms—
Safe-guarding most the weakest, most forlorn,—
The mother’s patience she has learned to know,
Which passes trifles by with smiling scorn—
The mother’s hopefulness, to anger slow.

Yet, oh, beware! nor, over-bold, presume
Upon a gentleness enlinked with Power!
Her torch still burns, to kindle or consume,
And ’gainst the time when she must prove her might,
Vast energy is stored in her soul’s room—
Undreamed of strength to battle for the Right!

Elf princess portrait

“Patience Taught by Nature” by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

“O Dreary life!” we cry, “O dreary life!”
And still the generations of the birds
Sing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds
Serenely live while we are keeping strife
With Heaven’s true purpose in us, as a knife
Against which we may struggle. Ocean girds
Unslackened the dry land: savannah-swards
Unweary sweep: hills watch, unworn; and rife
Meek leaves drop yearly from the forest-trees,
To show, above, the unwasted stars that pass
In their old glory. O thou God of old!
Grant me some smaller grace than comes to these;—
But so much patience, as a blade of grass
Grows by contented through the heat and cold.

“To a Soldier in Hospital” by Winifred M. Letts

Courage came to you with your boyhood’s grace
Of ardent life and limb.
Each day new dangers steeled you to the test,
To ride, to climb, to swim.
Your hot blood taught you carelessness of death
With every breath.

So when you went to play another game
You could not but be brave:
An Empire’s team, a rougher football field,
The end—perhaps your grave.
What matter? On the winning of a goal
You staked your soul.

Yes, you wore courage as you wore your youth
With carelessness and joy.
But in what Spartan school of discipline
Did you get patience, boy?
How did you learn to bear this long-drawn pain
And not complain?

Restless with throbbing hopes, with thwarted aims,
Impulsive as a colt,
How do you lie here month by weary month
Helpless, and not revolt?
What joy can these monotonous days afford
Here in a ward?

Yet you are merry as the birds in spring,
Or feign the gaiety,
Lest those who dress and tend your wound each day
Should guess the agony.
Lest they should suffer—this the only fear
You let draw near.

Greybeard philosophy has sought in books
And argument this truth,
That man is greater than his pain, but you
Have learnt it in your youth.
You know the wisdom taught by Calvary
At twenty-three.

Death would have found you brave, but braver still
You face each lagging day,
A merry Stoic, patient, chivalrous,
Divinely kind and gay.
You bear your knowledge lightly, graduate
Of unkind Fate.

Careless philosopher, the first to laugh,
The latest to complain.
Unmindful that you teach, you taught me this
In your long fight with pain:
Since God made man so good—here stands my creed—
God’s good indeed.

“Acrostic : Georgiana Augusta Keats” by John Keats

Give me your patience, sister, while I frame
Exact in capitals your golden name;
Or sue the fair Apollo and he will
Rouse from his heavy slumber and instill
Great love in me for thee and Poesy.
Imagine not that greatest mastery
And kingdom over all the Realms of verse,
Nears more to heaven in aught, than when we nurse
And surety give to love and Brotherhood.

Anthropophagi in Othello’s mood;
Ulysses storm’d and his enchanted belt
Glow with the Muse, but they are never felt
Unbosom’d so and so eternal made,
Such tender incense in their laurel shade
To all the regent sisters of the Nine
As this poor offering to you, sister mine.

Kind sister! aye, this third name says you are;
Enchanted has it been the Lord knows where;
And may it taste to you like good old wine,
Take you to real happiness and give
Sons, daughters and a home like honied hive.

Elf woman in a magical forest

“Peace” by Gerard Manley Hopkins

When will you ever, Peace, wild wooddove, shy wings shut,
Your round me roaming end, and under be my boughs?
When, when, Peace, will you, Peace? I’ll not play hypocrite
To own my heart: I yield you do come sometimes; but
That piecemeal peace is poor peace. What pure peace allows
Alarms of wars, the daunting wars, the death of it?

O surely, reaving Peace, my Lord should leave in lieu
Some good! And so he does leave Patience exquisite,
That plumes to Peace thereafter. And when Peace here does house
He comes with work to do, he does not come to coo,
He comes to brood and sit.

“The Patience Of The People” by Victor-Marie Hugo

(“Il s’est dit tant de fois.”)
[III., May, 1830.]

How often have the people said: “What’s power?”
Who reigns soon is dethroned? each fleeting hour
Has onward borne, as in a fevered dream,
Such quick reverses, like a judge supreme –
Austere but just, they contemplate the end
To which the current of events must tend.
Self-confidence has taught them to forbear,
And in the vastness of their strength, they spare.
Armed with impunity, for one in vain
Resists a nation, they let others reign.


“The Worm Will Turn” by Arthur Macy

I’m a gentle, meek, and patient human worm;
Rather active,
With a sense of right, original but firm.
I was taught to be forgiving,
For my enemies to pray;
But what’s the use of living
If you never can repay
All the little animosities that in your bosom burn –
Oh, it’s pleasant to remember that “the worm will turn.”

I’m so gentle and so patient and so meek,
But if, perchance, you smite me on the cheek,
I will never turn the other,
As I was taught to do
By a puritanic mother,
Whose theology was blue.
Your experience will widen when explicitly you learn
How a modest, mild, submissive little worm will turn.

I’m so subtle and so crafty and so sly.
I am humble,
But I “tumble”
To the slightest oscillation of the eye.
When others think they’re winning
A fabulous amount,
Then I do a little sinning
On my personal account,
And in my quiet, simple way a modest stipend earn
As they slowly grasp the bitter fact that worms will turn.

Oh, human worms are curious little things;
Rather pensive
Till it comes to using little human stings.
Oh, then avoid intrusion
If you would be discreet,
And cultivate seclusion
In an underground retreat.
And whenever you are tempted the lowly worm to spurn,
Just bear in mind that little line, “The worm will turn.”

Portrait of young dark-haired woman in the flowered garden

“When I Consider How My Light Is Spent” by John Milton

When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or His own gifts. Who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.”

“The Transvaal” by Algernon Charles Swinburne

Patience, long sick to death, is dead. Too long
Have sloth and doubt and treason bidden us be
What Cromwell’s England was not, when the sea
To him bore witness given of Blake how strong
She stood, a commonweal that brooked no wrong
From foes less vile than men like wolves set free
Whose war is waged where none may fight or flee—
With women and with weanlings. Speech and song
Lack utterance now for loathing. Scarce we hear
Foul tongues that blacken God’s dishonoured name
With prayers turned curses and with praise found shame
Defy the truth whose witness now draws near
To scourge these dogs, agape with jaws afoam,
Down out of life. Strike, England, and strike home.

“The Reading Man” by Thomas Frederick Young

With patient toil, from day to day,
The printed page he scann’d,
The page of learned book, or sheet
With news from foreign land.

And people thought him wond’rous wise,
And he himself was vain
Of all the knowledge he had stor’d
Within his jaded brain.

What other men were working at,
He knew from day to day,
But never dream’d his barren task
Was only idle play.

Fill’d with the thoughts of other minds,
His words were barren, dry;
He seldom coin’d a thought himself,
He had so many by.

And when he found himself alone,
Where self could only think,
He found the store within his brain,
A weight to make him sink.

What he had always thought were ends,
He saw were only means,
And, for his urgent purpose now,
Were worth – a row of beans.

With loud and bitter voice he curs’d
Newspapers, books and all,
That weaken’d his own manhood’s force,
And drove him to the wall.

He saw that man must be himself,
Or he will live in vain,
That nothing in this world can take
The place of his own brain.

The man who rides, but never walks,
Should surely never pout,
If in a race he falls behind,
Where horses are rul’d out.

The man who thinks by press or book,
No matter how profound,
Will find a grave some day, beneath
An ink and paper mound.

Elf maiden

“Prayer For Patience” by William Cowper

Lord, who hast suffer’d all for me,
My peace and pardon to procure,
The lighter cross I bear for Thee,
Help me with patience to endure.

The storm of loud repining hush;
I would in humble silence mourn;
Why should the unburnt, though burning bush,
Be angry as the crackling thorn?

Man should not faint at Thy rebuke,
Like Joshua falling on his face,
When the cursed thing that Achan took
Brought Israel into just disgrace.

Perhaps some golden wedge suppress’d,
Some secret sin offends my God;
Perhaps that Babylonish vest,
Self-righteousness, provokes the rod.

Ah! were I buffeted all day,
Mock’d, crown’d with thorns and spit upon,
I yet should have no right to say,
My great distress is mine alone.

Let me not angrily declare
No pain was ever sharp like mine,
Nor murmur at the cross I bear,
But rather weep, remembering Thine.

“The New Century” by Mary Baker Eddy

Thou God-crowned, patient century,
Thine hour hath come! Eternity
Draws nigh—and, beckoning from above,
One hundred years, aflame with Love,
Again shall bid old earth good-by—
And, lo, the light! far heaven is nigh!
New themes seraphic, Life divine,
And bliss that wipes the tears of time
Away, will enter, when they may,
And bask in one eternal day.
‘Tis writ on earth, on leaf and flower:
Love hath one race, one realm, one power.
Dear God! how great, how good Thou art
To heal humanity’s sore heart;
To probe the wound, then pour the balm—
A life perfected, strong and calm.
The dark domain of pain and sin
Surrenders—Love doth enter in,
And peace is won, and lost is vice:
Right reigns, and blood was not its price.

Pleasant View, Concord, N. H., January, 1901

“Sonnet IX” by George Santayana

Have patience; it is fit that in this wise
The spirit purge away its proper dross.
No endless fever doth thy watches toss,
For by excess of evil, evil dies.
Soon shall the faint world melt before thine eyes,
And, all life’s losses cancelled by life’s loss,
Thou shalt lay down all burdens on thy cross,
And be that day with God in Paradise.
Have patience; for a long eternity
No summons woke thee from thy happy sleep;
For love of God one vigil thou canst keep
And add thy drop of sorrow to the sea.
Having known grief, all will be well with thee,
Ay, and thy second slumber will be deep.

Portrait of a redheaded girl elf in a green swimsuit posing in a clearing of yellow flowers. Fantastic young woman with yellow butterflies in the rays of light.

“Patience Of Hope” by Christina Georgina Rossetti

The flowers that bloom in sun and shade
And glitter in the dew,
The flowers must fade.
The birds that build their nest and sing
When lovely spring is new,
Must soon take wing.

The sun that rises in his strength
To wake and warm the world,
Must set at length.
The sea that overflows the shore
With billows frothed and curled,
Must ebb once more.

All come and go, all wax and wane,
O Lord, save only Thou
Who dost remain
The Same to all eternity.
All things which fail us now
We trust to Thee.

“Lines, Written In London” by Frances Anne Butler

Struggle not with thy life! – the heavy doom
Resist not, it will bow thee like a slave:
Strive not! thou shalt not conquer; to thy tomb
Thou shalt go crushed, and ground, though ne’er so brave.

Complain not of thy life! – for what art thou
More than thy fellows, that thou should’st not weep?
Brave thoughts still lodge beneath a furrowed brow,
And the way-wearied have the sweetest sleep.

Marvel not at thy life! – patience shall see
The perfect work of wisdom to her given;
Hold fast thy soul through this high mystery,
And it shall lead thee to the gates of heaven.

“The Chief” by William Ernest Henley

His brow spreads large and placid, and his eye
Is deep and bright, with steady looks that still.
Soft lines of tranquil thought his face fulfill –
His face at once benign and proud and shy.
If envy scout, if ignorance deny,
His faultless patience, his unyielding will,
Beautiful gentleness and splendid skill,
Innumerable gratitudes reply.
His wise, rare smile is sweet with certainties,
And seems in all his patients to compel
Such love and faith as failure cannot quell.
We hold him for another Herakles,
Battling with custom, prejudice, disease,
As once the son of Zeus with Death and Hell.

lovely she-elf among flowers. Creative make-up and bodyart

“Art” by Theophile Gautier

All things are doubly fair
If patience fashion them
And care—
Verse, enamel, marble, gem.

No idle chains endure:
Yet, Muse, to walk aright,
Lace tight
Thy buskin proud and sure.

Fie on a facile measure,
A shoe where every lout
At pleasure
Slips his foot in and out!

Sculptor, lay by the clay
On which thy nerveless finger
May linger,
Thy thoughts flown far away.

Keep to Carrara rare,
Struggle with Paros cold,
That hold
The subtle line and fair.

Lest haply nature lose
That proud, that perfect line,
Make thine
The bronze of Syracuse.

And with a tender dread
Upon an agate’s face
Apollo’s golden head.

Despise a watery hue
And tints that soon expire.
With fire
Burn thine enamel true.

Twine, twine in artful wise
The blue-green mermaid’s arms,
Mid charms
Of thousand heraldries.

Show in their triple lobe
Virgin and Child, that hold
Their globe,
Cross-crowned and aureoled.

—All things return to dust
Save beauties fashioned well.
The bust
Outlasts the citadel.

Oft doth the ploughman’s heel,
Breaking an ancient clod,
A Caesar or a god.

The gods, too, die, alas!
But deathless and more strong
Than brass
Remains the sovereign song.

Chisel and carve and file,
Till thy vague dream imprint
Its smile
On the unyielding flint.

“The New South” by S. C. Mercer

Dedicated to R. W. Knott, Editor of the Louisville Evening Post

Sweet were my dreams along thy streams,
Old South, in bygone days,
Till war’s red cloud, ’mid thunders loud,
Consumed them in its blaze:
Sewanee’s old plantation scenes,
Where wild bees filled the comb;
The banjo and the moonlight dance
Of old Kentucky Home.
The New South wakes! the New South shakes
The dew-drops from her mane,
For idle grief brings no relief,
The past comes not again;
To manly hearts and patient souls
Heaven sanctifies each loss;
Two angels, Toil and Patience, bear
To Heaven the Southern Cross.
New South! New South! unseal thy mouth,
Thy golden age is come—
Invention’s soaring harmony
And labor’s busy hum.
The Old South dies; with beaming eyes
The New South hastens in;
So boyhood’s toys are cast aside
When manhood’s deeds begin.

“Contentment—Resignation, Patience, Compensation” by Anna Letitia Waring

Father, I know that all my life
Is portioned out for me,
And the changes that are sure to come
I do not fear to see;
I ask Thee for a patient mind,
Intent on pleasing thee.
I ask Thee for a thoughtful love,
Through constant watching wise,
To meet the glad with joyful smiles,
And wipe the weeping eyes,
And a heart, at leisure from itself,
To soothe and sympathize.
I would not have the restless will
That hurries to and fro,
Seeking for some great thing to do,
Or secret thing to know;
I would be treated as a child,
And guided where I go.
Wherever in this world I am,
In whatsoe’er estate,
I have a fellowship with hearts
To keep and cultivate,
And a work of lowly love to do
For the Lord on whom I wait.
So I ask Thee for the daily strength—
To none that ask denied—
And a mind to blend with outward life,
While keeping at thy side,
Content to fill a little space,
If thou be glorified.
And if some things I do not ask
In my cup of blessing be,
I would have my spirit filled the more
With grateful love to thee;
More careful not to serve thee much,
But to please thee perfectly.
There are briers besetting every path,
Which call for constant care;
There is a cross in every lot,
And an earnest need for prayer;
But a lowly heart, that leans on Thee,
Is happy everywhere.
In a service which Thy love appoints
There are no bonds for me,
For my secret heart has learned the truth
Which makes thy children free,
And a life of self-renouncing love
Is a life of liberty.

beautiful sensual, seductive, young sexy redhead woman with a longing, bride, Lady of Shalott, with a bouquet of wilted flowers lying in a boat in lake water

“The Here and There” by Kate Louise Wheeler

The Here and There are not so far apart,
As oft’ they seem to Sorrow’s waiting heart;
The waking love that Here no more shall sleep
Will There the souls in perfect union keep.
God does not mean, tho’ Heaven be bright and fair,
To break the strands between the Here and There.
The heart that loves shall love beyond the skies;
The soul that lives shall live in Paradise.
We know that He in joy and peace will keep
Our own and His until we fall asleep.
The same sweet smile, the loving face so fair,
But glorified, awaits our coming There.
To those who trust and patiently endure,
He gives them back, bright, beautiful and pure.
They are not lost to such as you and me
But still shall love us thro’ Eternity;—
And from temptation and from earthly care
Shall lead us upward to the Heavenly There.

“Animal Tranquillity And Decay” by William Wordsworth

The little hedgerow birds,
That peck along the roads, regard him not.
He travels on, and in his face, his step,
His gait, is one expression: every limb,
His look and bending figure, all bespeak
A man who does not move with pain, but moves
With thought. He is insensibly subdued
To settled quiet: he is one by whom
All effort seems forgotten; one to whom
Long patience hath such mild composure given,
That patience now doth seem a thing of which
He hath no need. He is by nature led
To peace so perfect that the young behold
With envy, what the Old Man hardly feels.

“Go Right on Working” by Nixon Waterman

Ah, yes! the task is hard, ’tis true,
But what’s the use of sighing?
They’re soonest with their duties through
Who bravely keep on trying.
There’s no advantage to be found
In sorrowing or shirking;
They with success are soonest crowned
Who just go right on working.
Strive patiently and with a will
That shall not be defeated;
Keep singing at your task until
You see it stand completed.
Nor let the clouds of doubt draw near,
Your sky’s glad sunshine murking;
Be brave, and fill your heart with cheer,
And just go right on working.

Woman waiting with lantern on a pier

“Here Am I” by Anna B. Warner

My will would like a life of ease,
And power to do, and time to rest,
And health and strength my will would please,
But, Lord, I know thy will is best.
If I have strength to do thy will
That should be power enough for me,
Whether to work or to sit still
The appointment of the day may be.
And if by sickness I may grow
More patient, holy and resigned,
Strong health I need not wish to know,
And greater ease I cannot find.
And rest—I need not seek it here;
For perfect rest remaineth still;
When in thy presence we appear
Rest shall be given by thy will.
Lord I have given my life to thee,
And every day and hour is thine;
What thou appointest let them be:
Thy will is better, Lord, than mine.

“Charity Not Justice” by Elizabeth Oakes Smith

Outwearied with the littleness and spite,
The falsehood and the treachery of men,
I cried, “Give me but justice!” thinking then
I meekly craved a common boon which might
Most easily be granted; soon the light
Of deeper truth grew on my wondering ken,
(Escaping baneful damps of stagnant fen),
And then I saw that in my pride bedight
I claimed from erring man the gift of Heaven—
God’s own great vested right; and I grew calm,
With folded hands, like stone, to patience given,
And pitying, of pure love distilling balm;
And now I wait in quiet trust to be
All known to God—and ask of men sweet charity.

“God Is Enough” by Edwin Arnold, from the Arabian

God is enough! thou, who in hope and fear
Toilest through desert sands of life, sore tried,
Climb, trustful, over death’s black ridge, for near
The bright wells shine; thou wilt be satisfied.

God doth suffice! O thou, the patient one,
Who puttest faith in him, and none beside,
Bear yet thy load; under the setting sun
The glad tents gleam; thou wilt be satisfied

By God’s gold Afternoon! peace ye shall have;
Man is in loss except he live aright,
And help his fellow to be firm and brave,
Faithful and patient; then the restful night.

Fantastic medieval woman with an hourglass in her hands. Magic hourglass, time of mysticism. Smoke Mysticism, witch, deceit, magic. Royal velvet vintage red dress with gold, witch, enchantress, queen,

“Who Bides His Time” by James Whitcomb Riley

Who bides his time, and day by day
Faces defeat full patiently,
And lifts a mirthful roundelay
However poor his fortunes be—
He will not fail in any qualm
Of poverty; the paltry dime—
It will grow golden in his palm
Who bides his time.

Who bides his time—he tastes the sweet
Of honey in the saltest tear;
And though he fares with slowest feet
Joy runs to meet him drawing near;
The birds are heralds of his cause,
And like a never-ending rhyme
The roadsides bloom in his applause
Who bides his time.

Who bides his time, and fevers not
In a hot race that none achieves,
Shall wear cool wreathen laurel, wrought
With crimson berries in the leaves;
And he shall reign a goodly king
And sway his hand o’er every clime,
With peace writ on his signet ring,
Who bides his time.

“More and More” by Johann W. von Goethe

Purer yet and purer
I would be in mind,
Dearer yet and dearer
Every duty find;
Hoping still and trusting
God without a fear,
Patiently believing
He will make it clear.

Calmer yet and calmer
Trials bear and pain,
Surer yet and surer
Peace at last to gain;
Suffering still and doing,
To his will resigned,
And to God subduing
Heart and will and mind.

Higher yet and higher
Out of clouds and night,
Nearer yet and nearer
Rising to the light—
Light serene and holy—
Where my soul may rest,
Purified and lowly,
Sanctified and blest.

“Patience of Jesus” by Edward Denny

What grace, O Lord, and beauty shone
Around thy steps below!
What patient love was seen in all
Thy life and death of woe!

For ever on thy burdened heart
A weight of sorrow hung;
Yet no ungentle, murmuring word
Escaped thy silent tongue.

Thy foes might hate, despise, revile,
Thy friends unfaithful prove;
Unwearied in forgiveness still,
Thy heart could only love.

O give us hearts to love like thee,
Like thee, O Lord, to grieve
Far more for others’ sins than all
The wrongs that we receive.

One with thyself, may every eye
In us, thy brethren, see
That gentleness and grace that spring
From union, Lord, with thee.

Seductive blond blue eyes lady woman in pinky airy dress on meadow of daisy chamomile holding bouquet of nflowers in hands and posing with horse on background.

“Buttercups and Daisies” by Mary Howitt

Buttercups and daisies,
Oh, the pretty flowers,
Coming ere the spring time,
To tell of sunny hours.
While the tree are leafless,
While the fields are bare,
Buttercups and daisies
Spring up here and there.

Ere the snowdrop peepeth,
Ere the crocus bold,
Ere the early primrose
Opes its paly gold,
Somewhere on the sunny bank
Buttercups are bright;
Somewhere ‘mong the frozen grass
Peeps the daisy white.

Little hardy flowers,
Like to children poor,
Playing in their sturdy health
By their mother’s door,
Purple with the north wind,
Yet alert and bold;
Fearing not, and caring not,
Though they be a-cold!

What to them is winter!
What are stormy showers!
Buttercups and daisies
Are these human flowers!
He who gave them hardships
And a life of care,
Gave them likewise hardy strength
And patient hearts to bear.

“The Patience of the Poor” by Susan K. Phillips

Ay, cherish them dearly, honour them well,
Our England’s gallant sons,
Nursed ‘mid the gleam of her bayonet points,
‘Mid the roar of her thundering guns.
Honour them nobly, cherish them dear,
Write their names on the roll of glory,
Teach our children’s eyes to flash and fill
O’er each high heroic story.
Honour their gay serenity,
Honour their stainless faith,
Their brave obedience to duty’s code,
Frank life, and fearless death.
Give their day our eager homage,
Give their night our proud regret ;
But there’s another noble host
Their land should scarce forget.

Oh, silent unrecorded lives,
In poverty stern and hard;
Oh, brave unfaltering struggle
For the workhouse’ grim reward;
Oh, beautiful untutored faith
In love and help in heaven ;
Oh, thankfulness for niggard boons,
Lightly or coldly given;
Oh, simple grand humility,
‘Neath the ills as birthright found;
Oh, charity that never fails,
To their fellows, suffering round;
Stedfast, and strong, and quiet,
To meet and to endure,
Sublime in its unconscious might,
The patience of the poor.

All cold unlovely strife for bread,
From the cradle to the grave,
No bright chivalric hope for fame,
No prizes for the brave.
Just labour, from the dreary morn
Till the day drags past at length;
Then heavy slumber to renew
For endless tasks, the strength.
From month to month, from year to year,
Unceasing weary working,
For the failing hand, for the tired head,
Hunger or almslife lurking.
All labour, labour-fire and food,
And shelter to secure ;
All borne in the God-given faith
And patience of the poor.

And we, we spare an idle hour,
A coin we do not need;
We pause, some lesson to enforce,
Some moral code to read.
We stoop from the rolling chariot,
To the pilgrim by the way,
To the wearied and the footsore,
Warning or rule to say.
Then talk of “the base ingratitude,”
Of a rough or jarring word,
Of the lavish use of a careless gift,
Of a “sullen” heart unstirred.
Ah brothers, learn our gilded ills,
As calmly to endure;
Learn in our wrongs to emulate
The patience of the poor.

“The Goal” by Kate Louise Wheeler

Each day we are grown older,
Years swiftly pass away;
And the world seems strangely colder,
The heart itself less gay.

The hopes that are brightly dawning,
The joys that oft are ours,
Shall vanish, in life’s fair morning,
Like dew-drops on the flowers.

Youth’s rosiest tints of splendor,
Are fading fast from sight;
And the trusting heart more tender,
In patience waits the night.

Like the athlete growing weary,
No more we run the race;
But near to the victors cheery
We seek a resting-place.

Just beyond the passing pleasure,
And thought of added years,
We can see Heaven’s greater treasure,
Which satisfies and cheers.

An eternal light is dawning,
To penetrate the gloom;
In life’s more radiant morning
Peace waits beyond the tomb.

Beautiful girl in white long dress in the fairytale autumn forest with red foliage like an enchantress. Fashion beauty and mystery concept

“On Christian Patience” by Thomas à Kempis

For Christ’s dear sake with courage bear
Whatever ills betide;
Prosperity is oft a snare,
And puffs the heart with pride.
What seemed thy loss will often prove
To be thy truest gain;
And sufferings borne with patient love
A jeweled crown obtain.
By this thou wilt the angels please,
Wilt glorify the Lord,
Thy neighbor’s faith and hope increase,
And earn a rich reward.
Brief is this life, and brief its pain,
But long the bliss to come;
Trials endured for Christ attain
A place with martyrdom.
The Christian soul by patience grows
More perfect day by day;
And brighter still, and brighter glows
With heaven’s eternal ray;
To Christ becomes more lovable,
More like the Saints on high;
Dear to the good; invincible
Against the Enemy.

“Do Your Best” by Kate Louise Wheeler

Make the best of life to-day—
Take what God has given;
Do not falter on the way—
Each step leads to Heaven.

Tho’ the journey may be long,
And the way be weary,
Make it shorter with a song—
Days will seem less dreary.

Let the sunshine fill your heart—
All it’s shadows hiding;
Do your humble little part—
Leave to God the guiding.

Do not soar to highest things
’Till you have a reason;
He will give the soul it’s wings
In his own good season.

Little robins in the nest—
Ere their wings are stronger—
Learn too late that it is best
To keep patient longer.

If you cannot do to-day
What you hope and plan,
God will show a better way,—
Do the best you can.

“Lines” by Harriet Beecher Stowe


How quiet, through the hazy autumn air,
The elm-boughs wave with many a gold-flecked leaf!
How calmly float the dreamy mantled clouds
Through these still days of autumn, fair and brief!

Our Andover stands thoughtful, fair, and calm,
Waiting to lay her summer glories by
E’er the bright flush shall kindle all her pines,
And her woods blaze with autumn’s heraldry.

By the old mossy wall the golden-rod
Waves as aforetime, and the purple sprays
Of starry asters quiver to the breeze,
Rustling all stilly through the forest ways.

No voice of triumph from those silent skies
Breaks on the calm, and speaks of glories near,
Nor bright wings flutter, nor fair glistening robes
Proclaim that heavenly messengers are here.

Yet in our midst an angel hath come down,
Troubling the waters in a peaceful home;
And from that home, of life’s long sickness healed,
A saint hath risen, where pain no more may come.

Christ’s fair elect one, from a hidden life
Of loving deeds and words of gentleness,
Hath passed where all are loving and beloved,
Beyond all weariness and all distress.

Calm, like a lamb in shepherd’s bosom borne,
Quiet and trustful hath she sunk to rest;
God breathed in tenderness the sweet “Well done!”
That scarce awoke a trance so still and blest.

Ye who remember the long loving years,
The patient mother’s hourly martyrdom,
The self-renouncing wisdom, the calm trust,
Rejoice for her whose day of rest is come!

Father and mother, now united, stand
Waiting for you to bind the household chain;
The tent is struck, the home is gone before,
And tarries for you on the heavenly plain.

By every wish repressed and hope resigned,
Each cross accepted and each sorrow borne,
She dead yet speaketh, she doth beckon you
To tread the path her patient feet have worn.

Each year that world grows richer and more dear
With the bright freight washed from life’s stormy shore;
O goodly clime, how lovely is thy strand,
With those dear faces seen on earth no more!

The veil between this world and that to come
Grows tremulous and quivers with their breath;
Dimly we hear their voices, see their hands,
Inviting us to the release of death.

O Thou, in whom thy saints above, below,
Are one and undivided, grant us grace
In patience yet to bear our daily cross,—
In patience run our hourly shortening race!

And while on earth we wear the servant’s form,
And while life’s labors ever toilful be,
Breathe in our souls the joyful confidence
We are already kings and priests with thee.

Beautiful woman in a sparkling beig dress poses on the river's

“Balm” by Martin F. Tupper

Patience, yet one little hour,
Pale, unloved, uncourted flower,
Seeing not the sun;
Patience,– heart of depth and duty,
Yearning for the smiles of beauty,
Never catching one:

Patience,– martyr following faintly,
Gentle nun, serene and saintly,
Kneeling in the dust;
Oh not vain thy long-enduring!
Still with meekest might securing
Triumph to thy trust!

Hushing every mutter’d murmur,
Tranquil Fortitude the firmer
Girdeth thee with strength;
While, no treason near her lurking,
Patience, in her perfect working,
Shall be Queen at length.

And, behold! thy pious daring
Is a glorious crown preparing
For thine own sweet brow;
Precious pearls of softest lustre
Shall with brightest jewels cluster
Where the thorns are now!

Faith and Patience! sister, brother,–
Lean in love on one another,
Calm for good or ill:
Comforted by surely knowing
That the Ruler is bestowing
Strength in sitting still!

O ye virgin spirits wasting,
O ye hearts of thousands, hasting
Darkly to decay,
Through the blight of disappointment,–
Tenderly, with precious ointment
Lull those cares away;

Tenderly, with wise beguilings,
Court sweet Patience for her smilings
On that ruin drear;
Soon, with other sister graces,
Shall she make your hearts and faces
Laugh away their fear:

Self-Contentment, bright-eyed Duty,
Faith in his archangel beauty,
Joy, and Love sublime,
Follow,– Patience, where thy finger
Gently beckons Hope to linger
On the wrecks of time!

“Just as God Leads” by Lampertus Gedicke

Just as God leads me I would go;
I would not ask to choose my way;
Content with what he will bestow,
Assured he will not let me stray.
So, as he leads, my path I make,
And step by step I gladly take—
A child, in him confiding.

Just as God leads I am content;
I rest me calmly in his hands;
That which he has decreed and sent—
That which his will for me commands—
I would that he should all fulfill,
That I should do his gracious will
In living or in dying.

Just as God leads, I all resign;
I trust me to my Father’s will;
When reason’s rays deceptive shine,
His counsel would I yet fulfill;
That which his love ordained as right
Before he brought me to the right
My all to him resigning.

Just as God leads me, I abide
In faith, in hope, in suffering true;
His strength is ever by my side—
Can aught my hold on him undo?
I hold me firm in patience, knowing
That God my life is still bestowing—
The best in kindness sending.

Just as God leads I onward go,
Out amid thorns and briers keen;
God does not yet his guidance show—
But in the end it shall be seen.
How, by a loving Father’s will,
Faithful and true, he leads me still.
And so my heart is resting.

“Blessed Thought of God” by Frederick Lucian Hosmer

One thought I have—my ample creed,
So deep it is and broad,
And equal to my every need—
It is the thought of God.

Each morn unfolds some fresh surprise,
I feast at life’s full board;
And rising in my inner skies,
Shines forth the thought of God.

At night my gladness is my prayer;
I drop my daily load,
And every care is pillowed there
Upon the thought of God.

I ask not far before to see,
But take in trust my road;
Life, death, and immortality,
Are in my thought of God.

To this their secret strength they owed
The martyr’s path who trod;
The fountains of their patience flowed
From out their thought of God.

Be still the light upon my way,
My pilgrim staff and rod,
My rest by night, my strength by day,
O blessed thought of God.

A beautiful white archangel descended from heaven. A girl in a sexy suit with huge white wings.

“To My Guardian Angel” by Frances Anne Butler

Merciful spirit! who thy bright throne above
Hast left, to wander through this dismal earth
With me, poor child of sin!—Angel of love!
Whose guardian wings hung o’er me from my birth,
And who still walk’st unwearied by my side,
How oft, oh thou compassionate! must thou mourn
Over the wayward deeds, the thoughts of pride,
That thy pure eyes behold! Yet not aside
From thy sad task dost thou in anger turn;
But patiently, thou hast but gazed and sighed,
And followed still, striving with the divine
Powers of thy soul for mastery over mine;
And though all line of human hope be past,
Still fondly watching, hoping, to the last.

“To God” by Robert Herrick

Make, make me Thine, my gracious God,
Or with Thy staff, or with Thy rod;
And be the blow, too, what it will,
Lord, I will kiss it, though it kill:
Beat me, bruise me, rack me, rend me,
Yet, in torments, I’ll commend Thee;
Examine me with fire, and prove me
To the full, yet I will love Thee;
Nor shall Thou give so deep a wound
But I as patient will be found.

“September Day” by Sara Teasdale

(Pont de Neuilly)

The Seine flows out of the mist
And into the mist again;
The trees lean over the water,
The small leaves fall like rain.
The leaves fall patiently,
Nothing remembers or grieves;
The river takes to the sea
The yellow drift of the leaves.
Milky and cold is the air,
The leaves float with the stream,
The river comes out of a sleep
And goes away in a dream.

Close up portrait of beautiful blue-eyed lady with perfect make up and plaited hairstyle sitting in the field and holding purple and blue flowers at her face. Blurred background.

“Woman’s Love” by Frances Anne Butler

A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes,
Full of eternal constancy and faith,
And smiling lips, through whose soft portal sighs
Truth’s holy voice, with ev’ry balmy breath;
So journeys she along life’s crowded way,
Keeping her soul’s sweet counsel from all sight;
Nor pomp, nor vanity, lead her astray,
Nor aught that men call dazzling, fair, or bright:
For pity, sometimes, doth she pause, and stay
Those whom she meeteth mourning, for her heart
Knows well in suffering how to bear its part.
Patiently lives she through each dreary day,
Looking with little hope unto the morrow;
And still she walketh hand in hand with sorrow.

“Tree-Toad” by Hilda Conkling

Tree-toad is a small gray person
With a silver voice.
Tree-toad is a leaf-gray shadow
That sings.
Tree-toad is never seen
Unless a star squeezes through the leaves,
Or a moth looks sharply at a gray branch.
How would it be, I wonder,
To sing patiently all night,
Never thinking that people are asleep?
Raindrops and mist, starriness over the trees,
The moon, the dew, the other little singers,
Cricket … toad … leaf rustling….
They would listen:
It would be music like weather
That gets into all the corners
Of out-of-doors.
Every night I see little shadows
I never saw before.
Every night I hear little voices
I never heard before.
When night comes trailing her starry cloak,
I start out for slumberland,
With tree-toads calling along the roadside.{224}
Good-night, I say to one, Good-by, I say to another,
I hope to find you on the way
We have traveled before!
I hope to hear you singing on the Road of Dreams!