Poetry Archives

The sun has slipped his tether
  And galloped down the west.
(Oh, it’s weary, weary waiting, love.)
The little bird is sleeping
  In the softness of its nest.
Night follows day, day follows dawn,
And so the time has come and gone:
  And it’s weary, weary waiting, love.

The cruel wind is rising
  With a whistle and a wail.
(And it’s weary, weary waiting, love.)
My eyes are seaward straining
  For the coming of a sail;
But void the sea, and void the beach
Far and beyond where gaze can reach!
  And it’s weary, weary waiting, love.

I heard the bell-buoy ringing—
  How long ago it seems!
(Oh, it’s weary, weary waiting, love.)
And ever still, its knelling
  Crashes in upon my dreams.
The banns were read, my frock was sewn;
Since then two seasons’ winds have blown—
  And it’s weary, weary waiting, love.

The stretches of the ocean
  Are bare and bleak to-day.
(Oh, it’s weary, weary waiting, love.)
My eyes are growing dimmer—
  Is it tears, or age, or spray?
But I will stay till you come home.
Strange ships come in across the foam!
  But it’s weary, weary waiting, love.