Today can sing of yesterday--
Songs tender, tinct with sorrow;
But mute she comes along the way,
All beautiful tomorrow.
Her face is full of prophecies,
Her lips have still with-holden;
And, gazing in her radiant eyes,
Song turns to silence golden.
Hope mute beside her pathway stands,
Asks nothing but the vision;
And turns at night with empty hands
Still dreaming of fruition.
Ah, Beauty, soon as present gone;
Most fleet and most beguiling!
Why are our hearts forever drawn
By that strange far off smiling?
Why is it that from new delays
New faith they still can borrow?
Ah, why, but that among the days
Comes heaven's first Good Morrow?
She will come in with no alarms,
Under this same low portal;
And clasp us as in mortal arms,
And we shall turn immortal!
