For Love Is Mightiest Next to Fate

 A Ballade of Waiting
by Archibald Lampman  

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 like a shimmer on sand shall be,
 In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait. 

 Sweet mouth, that the wear of the world hath taught
 No glitter of wile or traitorie,
 More soft than a cloud in the sunset caught,
 Or the heart of a crimson peony;
 O turn not its beauty away from me;
 To kiss it and cling to it early and late
 Shall make sweet minutes of days that flee,
 In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait. 

 Rich hair, that a painter of old had sought
 For the weaving of some soft phantasy,
 Most fair when the streams of it run distraught
 On the firm sweet shoulders yellowly;
 Dear Lady, gather it close to me,
 Weaving a nest for the double freight
Of cheeks and lips that are one and free,
 For the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait. 

 Envoi
 So time shall be swift till thou mate with me,
 For love is mightiest next to fate,
 And none shall be happier, Love, than we,
 In the year yet, Lady, to dream and wait.