Who Bides His Time

Who bides his time, and day by day Faces defeat full patiently,

And lifts a mirthful roundelay,

However poor his fortunes be,— He will not fail in any qualm Of poverty — the paltry dime It will grow golden in his palm,

Who bides his time.

Who bides his time — he tastes the sweet Of 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 not In the hot race that none achieves,

Shall wear cool-wreathen laurel, wrought With crimson berries in the leaves;

And he shall reign a goodly king,

And sway his hand o'er every clime With peace writ on his signet-ring,

Who bides his time.