How Morrow weaves her evensong For buds, unwary, sweet and young, Full-blossomed low on boughs of trees, Still blissful in their infancies, Beguiled by wind and rain and sun To crawl to stand to walk to run!
And Oh! How Morrow ever-long Shall pluck with purpose from the throng Aged thorny vines on withered knees, Wild saplings cursed with Time's disease, And all betwixt whose yarns have spun Out from the void whence they begun.
And so, sweet Morrow, shadows long Flit fairy-like o'er milkmoon seas, Thy cold enticing webs are strung On oceans calm and careless leas; A twilight rests on mountains flung Unto the heaven that oversees A midnight roll-call aired with sorrow For young sweet buds who’ll miss thee, Morrow.