Patient Pace

A Poem

Fervent Soul and finite Form 
Frolic through the fields,
The former fleeing from a storm;
To fatigue the latter yields.

“Wherefore stop?” besought the Soul,
Clouds covering God’s ray.
Calmly came reply, “A toll,
Which I as Form must pay.”

“I shall go on!” Soul exclaimed;
“Patience” said the other.
“For, when by darkness I am maimed,
You too it shall smother.”

The mind must meet its model’s pace;
When Death gives chase, both lose the race.