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.