VII

To-morrow and to-morrow—shall there be Perchance a morrow when I may not see Your face beside me any more? Ah, no! My love, my love, I cannot let you go. Like sun in Egypt, ever kind and fair, My heart must wake at dawn and know you there— No dread of day which holds a weeping rain, No dread of chilly love and bitter pain, But ever present, ever wise and true, To-morrow and to-morrow holding you.