But thou, To-morrow! never yet was born
In earth’s dull atmosphere a thing so fair—
Never yet tripped, with footsteps light as air,
So glad a vision o’er the hills of morn!
Fresh as the radiant dawning—all unworn
By lightest touch of sorrow, or of care,
Thou dost the glory of the morning share
By snowy wings of hope and faith upborne!
O fair To-morrow! what our souls have missed
Art thou not keeping for us, somewhere, still?
The buds of promise that have never blown—
The tender lips that we have never kissed—
The song whose high, sweet strain eludes our skill—
The one white pearl that life hath never known!