BURROUGHS, John

Waiting

Serene, I fold my hands and wait,

Nor care for wind, nor tide, nor sea;

I rave no more ‘gainst time or fate,

For lo! my own shall come to me.

I stay my haste, I make delays,

For what avails this eager pace?

I stand amid the eternal ways,

And what is mine shall know my face.

Asleep, awake, by night or day,

The friends I seek are seeking me;

No wind can drive my bark astray

Nor change the tide of destiny.

What matter if I stand alone?

I wait with joy the coming years;

My heart shall reap where it has sown,

And garner up its fruit of tears.

The law of love binds every heart

And knits it to its utmost kin,

Nor can our lives flow long apart

From souls our secret souls would win.

The stars come nightly to the sky,

The tidal wave comes to the sea;

Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high

Can keep my own away from me.

The Coming Of Phoebe

When buckets shine 'gainst maple trees

And dropp by dropp the sap doth flow,

When days are warm, but still nights freeze,

And deep in woods lie drifts of snow,

When cattle low and fret in stall,

Then morning brings the phoebe's call,

'phoebe,

phoebe, phoebe,' a cheery note,

While cackling hens make such a rout.

When snowbanks run, and hills are bare,

And early bees hum round the hive,

When woodchucks creep from out their lair

Right glad to find themselves alive,

When sheep go nibbling through the fields,

Then phoebe oft her name reveals,

'phoebe,

phoebe, phoebe,' a plaintive cry,

While jack-snipes call in morning sky.

When wild ducks quack in creek and pond

And bluebirds perch on mullein-stalks,

When spring has burst her icy bond

And in brown fields the sleek crow walks,

When chipmunks court in roadside walls,

Then phoebe from the ridgeboard calls,

'phoebe,

phoebe, phoebe,' and lifts her cap,

While smoking Dick doth boil the sap.