Song in Time of Waiting.

    Because the days are long for you and me,
        I make this song to lighten their slow time,
    So that the weary waiting fruitful be
        Or blossomed only by my limping rhyme.
                The days are very long
        And may not shortened be by any chime
        Of measured words or any fleeting song.
    Yet let us gather blossoms while we wait
    And sing brave tunes against the face of fate.

    Day after day goes by: the exquisite
        Procession of the variable year,
    Summer, a sheaf with flowers bound up in it,
        And autumn, tender till the frosts appear
                And dry the humid skies;
        And winter following on, aloof, austere,
        Clad in the garments of a frore sunrise;
    And spring again.    May not too many a spring
    Make both our voices tremble as we sing!

    The days are empty, empty, and the nights
        Are cold and void; there is no single gleam
    Across the space unpeopled of delights,
        Save only now and then some thin-blood dream,
                Some stray of summer weather;
        The tedious hours like slow-foot laggarts seem,
        When you and I, my love, are not together
    And when I hold you in my arms at last
    The minutes go like April cloudlets past.

    And yet no hidden charm, no desperate spell
        Can make these minutes longer, those less long:
    No force there is that yearning can impel
        Against the callous years which do us wrong.
                No words, no whispered rune,
        No witchery and no Thessalian song
        Can make that far-off, misty day more soon.
    The bravest tune, the most courageous rhyme
    Fall broken from the bastions of time.

    A long and dusty road it is to tread;
        Few are the wayside flowers and far apart
    And are no sooner plucked than withered,
        When yearning heart is torn from yearning heart.
                A weary road it is
        And yet far off I see clear waters start
        And clean sweet grass and tangled traceries
    Of whispering leaves, that laugh to see us come,
    And there one day ... one day shall be our home.

    The day will come.    O dearest, do not doubt!
        It is not born as yet but I shall see
    Some day the fearless sunrise flashing out
        And know the night will give you up to me.
                O heart, my heart, be glad,
        Because the time will come at last when we
        Shall leave all grief and unlearn all things sad
    And know the joy than which none sweeter is
    And I shall sing a happier song than this.