 | Poems |  |
20
“TO-MORROW AND TO-MORROW AND TO-MORROW.”
My youthtime past, Life's joyous season o'er,The April of our years, when buds half-blown
Of golden promise, seedlings too, thick sown,
Delight the soul a rich uncounted store,
Which future suns in splendour shall restore—
Poor creditor! Autumn perhaps will moan
Most inconsolably from stone to stone
Over a field that prematurely bore
A harvestry of buds reaped by the wind
That never came to fruitage! I remember
The very day when to my youthful mind
A low-born thought that counselled ease did clamber
And drugged my energies: I woke to find
The dark winds and the cold snows of December.
| Poems | |