Will not the End explain
The crossed endeavor, earnest purpose foiled.
The strange bewilderment of good work spoiled.
The clinging weariness, the inward strain;
Will not the End explain?
Meanwhile He comforteth
Them that are losing patience; ’tis His way.
But none can write the words they hear Him say,
For men to read; only they know He saith
Kind words and comforteth.
Not that He doth explain
The mystery that baffleth; but a sense
Husheth the quiet heart, that far, far hence
Lieth a field set thick with golden grain,
Wetted in seedling days by many a rain;
The End – it will explain.