A
BALLADE OF WAITING
No girdle
hath weaver or goldsmith wrought
So rich as the arms of my love
can be;
No gems with a lovelier lustre fraught
Than her eyes, when they answer
me liquidly.
Dear lady of love, be kind to
me
5
In days
when the waters of hope abate,
And doubt like a shimmer on
sand shall be,
In the
year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.
Sweet mouth,
that the wear of the world hath taught
No glitter of wile or traitorie,
10
More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught,
Or the heart of a crimson peony;
Oh turn not its beauty away
from me;
To kiss
it and cling to it early and late
Shall make sweet minutes of
days that flee,
15
In the
year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.
Rich hair,
that a painter of old had sought
For the weaving of some soft
phantasy,
Most fair when the streams of it run distraught
On the firm sweet shoulders
yellowly;
20
Dear Lady, gather it close to me,
Weaving a nest for the double
freight
Of cheeks and lips that are one and free,
For the year yet, Lady, to dream
and wait.
Envoi.
So time shall
be swift till thou mate with me,
25
For love is mightiest next to
fate,
And none shall be happier, Love, than we,
In the year yet, Lady, to dream
and wait.
|
