Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/29

 Wait! Let us wait! Let us wait until to-morrow. The wet Snow wrinkles, it will rot, It will moulder at the root Of the oak-tree. Wait! Oh, wait, I will gather Grains of wheat and corn together, Ears of corn and dry barley. But wait, but only wait. I am barely Seventeen: must I make haste? To-morrow there will be a host Of crocuses and small hairy Snow-drops. And why, then, must I hurry? There are things I have to do More than just to live and die, More than just to die of living. I have seen the moonlight leaving Twig by twig the elms and wondered Where I go, where I have wandered.