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.
