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     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,     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,     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;     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,     For love is mightiest next to fate,     And none shall be happier, Love, than we,     In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.