"Wait," said the bride.  She was young and fair -
   Fair as a dear, delicious rose
   Which, like a recluse inardent, blows
Veiled from the sun and the grosser air.


"Wait for my husband who is old and grey,
   Bent is his back, and his step is slow;
   Soon he will sleep with the earthworms low.
Wait, oh! my love, for another day."


"Wait," said the wife.  She was fair and round.
   "Wait, for the years we lose are few;
   Yet we are young, and our world is new,
But he - he is moving towards the mound."


"Wait," said the wife.  She was hale and red.
   "Wait.  Though tiny sorrow is plain to see;
   Time, who hath seasons of joy for thee.
Stricketh his scythe at that old, grey head."


Over a mound in a graveyard lone,
   Chuckling with glee on the mouldy bed,
   Straddleth a man with an old, grey head.
'Waiting' is writ on the chiselled stone.

"Edward Dyson"
The Bulletin, 28 April 1894, p18