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TO-MORROW
The robin chants when the thrush is dumb,
Snow smooths a bed for the clover,
Life flames anew, and days to come
Are sweet as the days that are over.
The tide that ebbs by the moon flows back,
Faith builds on the ruins of sorrow,
The halcyon flutters in winter's track,
And night makes way for the morrow.
And ever a strain, of joys the sum,
Sings on in the heart of the lover—
In death sings on—that days to come
Are sweet as the days that are over!
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