TO-MORROW is a day too far To trust, whate'er the day be. We know, a little, what we are, But who knows what he may be? The oak that on the mountain grows A goodly ship may be, Next year; but it is as well (who knows?) May be a gallows-tree. 'Tis God made man, no doubt, -- not Chance: He made us, great and small; But, being made, 't is Circumstance That finishes us all. The Author of this world's great plan The same results will draw From human life, however man May keep, or break, His law. The Artist to his Art doth look; And Art's great laws exact That those portrayed in Nature's Book, Should freely move and act. The moral of the work unchanged Endures eternally, Howe'er by human wills arranged The work's details may be. "Give us this day our daily bread, The morrow shall take heed Unto itself." The Master said No more. No more we need. To-morrow cannot make or mar To-day, whate'er the day be: Nor can the men which now we are Foresee the men we may be. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CITY TREES by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY OF AN ORCHARD by KATHARINE TYNAN OUR STATE by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER A DREAM, OR THE TYPE OF THE RISING SUN by JEAN ADAMS THE NIGHT SONG by MARY DELL ALLEN CHORIAMBICS: 1 by RUPERT BROOKE FOURTH BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 16 by THOMAS CAMPION TO MY MISTRESS SITTING BY A RIVER'S SIDE; AN EDDY by THOMAS CAREW |