The Wait
The Future is a timid Guest —
It knocks — but will not stay —
Its Face half veiled in Morning mist —
Its Words — a shadow’s play —
The Clock declines to answer —
The Sun averts her Eye —
Yet in the Breath of Clover —
A Whisper will reply —
The Choice is not for Mortal Hands —
Nor any mortal Pen —
It turns upon a secret Wheel —
Once — and not again —
You saw — before the Others —
The petal’s sudden hue —
So trust the Day — when it arrives —
It has been seen — by You —
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