NOT IN VAIN I WAITED.

She was but a child, a child,

And I a man grown;

Sweet she was, and fresh, and wild,

And, I thought, my own.

What could I do? The long grass groweth,

The long wave floweth with a murmur on:

The why and the wherefore of it all who knoweth?

Ere I thought to lose her she was grown — and gone.

This day or that day in warm spring weather.

The lamb that was tame will yearn to break its tether.

“But if the world wound thee,” I said, “come back to me,

Down in the dell wishing — wishing, wishing for thee.”

The dews hang on the white may,

Like a ghost it stands,

All in the dusk before day

That folds the dim lands:

Dark fell the skies when once belated,

Sad, and sorrow-fated, I missed the sun;

But wake, heart, and sing, for not in vain I waited.

O clear, O solemn dawning, lo, the maid is won!

Sweet dews, dry early on the grass and clover,

Lest the bride wet her feet while she walks over;

Shine to-day, sunbeams, and make all fair to see:

Down the dell she's coming — coming, coming with me.