Who Bides His Time
Who bides his time, and day by dayFaces defeat full patiently,And lifts a mirthful roundelay,However poor his fortunes be,--He will not fail in any qualmOf poverty -- the paltry dimeIt will grow golden in his palm,Who bides his time.
Who bides his time -- he tastes the sweetOf honey in the saltest tear;And though he fares with slowest feet,Joy runs to meet him, drawing near;The birds are hearalds of his cause;And, like a never-ending rhyme,The roadsides bloom in his applause,Who bides his time.
Who bides his time, and fevers notIn the hot race that none achieves,Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wroughtWith crimson berries in the leaves;And he shall reign a goodly king,And sway his hand o'er every climeWith peace writ on his signet-ring,Who bides his time.
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