Until

I know of a place where the bees do hum
where patience learns to paint with sun,
the rivers, in their paths to churn,
round and round at every turn.

I know of a place where busy men run,
To and fro, seldom with fun,
Waiting upon, and new things to learn,
And regressing again, in incompletion.

I know of places with honking horns,
saturated sights, grief and woes,
fruitful and faithless, and all things greater,
like love lost and recovered.

And yet, they stay not the same,
for when they lack the essential,
every beautiful nook and goddamn heaven remains,
solitary.
until he comes this way.