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.