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.
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