 | Poems |  |
[V. Tomorrow come; dost say my friend Tomorrow]
Tomorrow comes; dost say my friend Tomorrow?Far down below those Pines the Sunset flings
Long arching o'er, its lines of ruddy light,
And the wind murmurs little harmonies,
And underneath their wings the tender birds
Droop their averted heads,—silent their songs.
But not a word whispers the moaning wind,
Nor when in faint array the primal stars
Trail with the banners of the unfurled night,
Nor even when the low-hung moon just glints
And faintly with few touches seres the wood,
Not there, nor then, doth Nature idly say
Nor whisper idly of another day;
That other morn itself its morrow is,
That other day shall see no shade of this.
| Poems | |