To lands he deemeth peopled by his brothers,
Whose song he hears in flight!
Not skimming on the lake’s fair breast is he,
But winging on and on,
And dim against the feathery cloud
He fades into the blue.
I stand with withered blossoms crushed,
And weave and weave and weave.
This is Patience’s answer to the eternal question:
Can I then trust me on this journey lone