Ina Donna Coolbrith

Not Yet

NOT yet from the yellow west,
Fade, light of the autumn day
Far lies my haven of rest,
And rough the way.
She has waited long, my own!
And the night is dark and drear
To meet alone.

Not yet, with the leaves that fall,
Fall, rose of the wayside thorn,
Fair and most sweet of all
The summer-born.
But O, for my rose that stands,
And waits, through the lessening year,
My gathering hands!

Fail not, O my life, so fast —
Fail not till we shall have met:
Soon, soon will thy pulse be past,
But oh, not yet! —
Till her fond eyes on me shine,
And the heart so dear, so dear,
Beats close to mine.