Classic Poem

God hath been patient long. In eons past
— He plowed the waste of Chaos. He hath sown
— The furrows with His worlds, and from His throne
— Showered, like grain, planets upon the Vast.
What meed of glory hath He from the past?
— Shall He not reap, who hears but prayer and groan?
— The harvest waits. . . . He cometh to His own, —
— He who shall scythe the starry host at last.
When the accumulated swarms of Death
— Glut the rank worlds as rills are choked by leaves,
— Then shall God flail the million orbs, as sheaves
Unfruitful gleaned; and, in His age sublime,
— Winnow the gathered stars, and with a breath
— Whirl the spurned chaff adown the void of Time!