Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Only Waiting

Only Waiting.

(A very aged man, in an almshouse, was asked what he was doing now? He replied, "Only Waiting.")

Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown;Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown; Till the night of earth is faded From the heart once full of day;Till the stars of heaven are breaking Through the twilight soft and grey.

Only waiting till the reapers Have the last sheaf gathered home,For the summer time is faded, And the autumn winds have come;Quickly, reapers! gather quickly The last ripe hours of my heart,For the bloom of life is withered, And I hasten to depart.

Only waiting till the angels Open wide the mystic gate,By whose side I long have lingered, Weary, poor, and desolate;Even now I hear the footsteps, And their voices far away;If they call me, I am waiting, Only waiting to obey.

Only waiting till the shadows Are a little longer grown;Only waiting till the glimmer Of the day's last beam is flown:Then from out the gathering darkness Holy, deathless stars shall rise,By whose light my soul shall gladly, Tread the pathway to the skies.