The Poetry Corner

To-Morrow

By George MacDonald

My TO-MORROW is but a flitting Fancy of the brain; God's TO-MORROW an angel sitting, Ready for joy or pain. My TO-MORROW has no soul, Dead as yesterdays; God's--a brimming silver bowl Of life that gleams and plays. My TO-MORROW, I mock you away! Shadowless nothing, thou! God's TO-MORROW, come, dear day, For God is in thee now.