To-Morrow

4 0 00

To-Morrow

My to-morrow is but a flitting

Fancy of the brain;

God’s to-morrow an angel sitting,

Ready for joy or pain.

My to-morrow has no soul,

Dead as yesterdays;

God’s⁠—a brimming silver bowl

Of life that gleams and plays.

My to-morrow, I mock you away!

Shadowless nothing, thou!

God’s to-morrow, come, dear day,

For God is in thee now.