And wonder when rivers of oil and wine
Would flow, as the Book assures?
Well, and if none of these good things came,
What did the failure prove?
The man was my whole world, all the same,
With his flowers to praise or his weeds to blame,
And, either or both, to love.
Yet this turns now to a fault—there! there!
That I do love, watch too long,
And wait too well, and weary and wear;