No girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wrought <br />So rich as the arms of my love can be; <br />No gems with a lovelier lustre fraught <br />Than her eyes, when they answer me liquidly. <br />Dear lady of love, be kind to me <br />In days when the waters of hope abate, <br />And doubt like a shimmer on sand shall be, <br />In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait. <br /> <br />Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taught <br />No glitter of wile or traitorie, <br />More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught, <br />Or the heart of a crimson peony; <br />Oh turn not its beauty away from me; <br />To kiss it and cling to it early and late <br />Shall make sweet minutes of days that flee, <br />In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait. <br /> <br />Rich hair, that a painter of old had sought <br />For the weaving of some soft phantasy, <br />Most fair when the streams of it run distraught <br />On the firm sweet shoulders yellowly; <br />Dear Lady, gather it close to me, <br />Weaving a nest for the double freight <br />Of cheeks and lips that are one and free, <br />For the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait. <br /> <br />Envoi. <br /> <br />So time shall be swift till thou mate with me, <br />For love is mightiest next to fate, <br />And none shall be happier, Love, than we, <br />In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.<br /><br />Archibald Lampman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-ballade-of-waiting/
