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.