My Dreams, My Works, Must Wait Till After Hell.
I hold my honey and I store my bread
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly, and each latch and lid
I bid, Be firm Till I return from hell.
I am very hungry. I am incomplete.
And none can tell when I may dine again.
And none can give me any word but Wait,
The puny light, I keep my eyes pointed in
Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt
Drag out to their last dregs and I resume
On such legs as are left me, in such heart
As I can manage, remember to go home,
My taste will not have turned insensitive
To honey and bread old purity could love.
