Classic Poem

To him who waits all things, they say,
Will come upon a certain day:
The love that Love's own sloth belates,
The satisfaction of the hates,
For which one yearns, tho' does not pray.

Success will bring the wreath of bay
She filched from Fame, as sleeping lay
The sullen and unwilling Fates,
To him who waits.

It may be true! Ah, yes, it may!
But hearts grow feeble, Faith grows gray;
Her greed for sadness Sorrow sates;
Hope trembles, doubts and hesitates,
While Fortune loiters on her way
To him who waits.