Serene, I fold my hands and wait,
Nor care for wind nor tide nor sea;
I rave no more 'gainst time or fate,
For lo! my own shall come to me.
I stay my haste, I make delays--
For what avails this eager pace?
I stand amid the eternal ways
And what is mine shall know my face.
You never know what waits for you at the end of a long journey from a far-away, frozen land. It could be a hammock on the patio in the sun and a friendly, familiar face...
...or two, or more.
Asleep, awake, by night or day,
The friends I seek are seeking me,
No wind can drive my bark astray
Nor change the tide of destiny.
What matter if I stand alone?
I wait with joy the coming years,
My heart shall reap where it has sown,
And garner up in fruit of tears.
You may find the annual rye you had sown a few weeks ago finally making an appearance on a drab winter lawn in Northwest Florida. You wonder if that guy at the agricultural check station could really believe someone claiming to be hauling home a few pots of his wife's herbs all the way from Illinois. You have discovered that honesty is still the best policy. And it never hurts to have a long line of trucks waiting behind you to dispel any doubt. The Loropetalum, among other things, lets you know that winter here is a lot more colorful now that you are home.
The brook that springs in yonder height;
So flows the good with equal law
Unto the soul of pure delight.
The stars come nightly to the sky;
The tidal wave unto the sea;
Nor time, nor space, nor deep, nor high,
Can keep my own away from me.
--"Waiting" by John Burroughs (1837-1921)--