To wait is danger, love; to wait is something dread,
The fear of the facts, denial, magic thinking, fear.
For patience tolls the righteous after they are dead.

A few have died for nothing, lived for nothing too,
A waste, a shame; I think it well to persevere,
For love can wait, for love shall wait if love be true.

A widow waits, defers her loves to other means
By weaving, when in stitches faces soon appear,
Abated reds to morning blues or twilit greens
Awaiting virtue’s cold and gentle killing-spear.

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