 | The poetical works of Henry Alford |  |
229
TO-MORROW. (1832.)
To-morrow—'tis an idle sound,
Tell me of no such dreary thing;
A new land whither I am bound
After strange wandering.
Tell me of no such dreary thing;
A new land whither I am bound
After strange wandering.
What care I if bright blossoms there
Unfold, and sunny be the field;
If laded boughs in summer air
Their pulpy fruitage yield?
Unfold, and sunny be the field;
If laded boughs in summer air
Their pulpy fruitage yield?
While deck to-day my pleasant bower
Upon my own loved mountain-side
The azure periwinkle flower,
And violet deep-eyed?
Upon my own loved mountain-side
The azure periwinkle flower,
And violet deep-eyed?
Tell me not of to-morrow; calm
In His great hand I would abide
Who fills my present hour with balm,
And trust, whate'er betide.
In His great hand I would abide
Who fills my present hour with balm,
And trust, whate'er betide.
| The poetical works of Henry Alford | |