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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348074" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>A Ballade of Waiting</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Envoi.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">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.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Archibald+Lampman">Archibald Lampman</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348074" data-title="A Ballade of Waiting de Archibald Lampman" data-description="No girdle hath weaver or goldsmith wrought
So rich as the arms of my love can be;
No gems with a lovelier lustre fraught
Than her eyes, when they answer me liquidly.
Dear lady of love, be kind to me
In days when the waters of hope abate,
And doubt..."></div>
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