Classic Poem

Blessed is he who tarrieth for the king.—
And blessed is he who waiteth for his lady
Through nights of suffering,—threading valleys shady
And dim defiles of pain with lips that sing.
Not yet the blue sky parts before her wing;
Not yet the sun-bright angels round her throng
As she descends,—the murky night is long;
No pink clouds round the mountain-summits cling.

But she shall come. Most blest of all is he
Whom no most sudden sunrise can perturb;
Who, when the rich dawn gilds the smallest herb
Upon the mountain-side, can fearlessly
Meet the full rapture of his lady's face,
Not having flinched from his appointed place.