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Poem	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.
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