Waiting

Victorian Poetry by Augusta Webster

WAITING, waiting. 'Tis so far
To the day that is to come:
One by one the days that are
All to tell their countless sum;
Each to dawn and each to die -
What so far as by and by?

Waiting, waiting. 'Tis not ours,
This to-day that flies so fast:
Let them go, the shadowy hours,
Floating, floated, into Past.
Our day wears to-morrow's sky -
What so near as by and by?

..................

A young fair girl among her flowers,
And, as to blossoms born in May,
Her morrows still brought sunnier hours
Than made up sunny yesterday.
She did but wait: "Hope is so sweet;
We love so well, my love and I;
The hours that come, the hours that fleet,
End all in one glad by and by."

A pale worn woman, scarcely sad,
But tired, like those who, too long pent,
Forget the joy they have not had
Of the free winds, and droop content.
She did but wait: "Ah, no, to me
The silent hope is never dead;
What are the days that are to be
But part of the dear days long fled?"

He came: "The wealth we need is mine;
And now?" "Alas!" she said, "in vain.
The love I love is noway thine,
I wait who never comes again.
Oh, for my lover of old days,
We two from all the world apart!
I must go lone on earth's bleak ways,
He is not now save in my heart."

He wed another. She, alone,
Patient and weary, toiled for bread.
And bygone still was never gone,
The silent hope was never dead.
She did but wait: "I have the past;
The new days live the old days o'er,
And there abides until the last
The by and by that was before."

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