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.