English poem
Vigilate Itaque
by H. P. Nichols (1850–1940)
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.