TO-MORROW
She walks in a lonely garden
On the path her feet have made,
With high-heeled shoes, gold-buckled.
And gown of a flowered brocade;
The hair that falls on her shoulders,
Half-held with a ribbon tie,
Once glowed like the wheat in autumn.
Now grey as a winter sky.
Time on her brow with rough fingers
Writes record of smiles and tears;
Her mind, like a golden timepiece,
He stopped in the long past years.
At the foot of the lonely garden,
She comes to the trysting-place
She knew of old, there she lingers,
A blush on her withered face.
The children out on the common,
They climb to the garden wall.
And laugh, “He will come to-morrow!”
Who never will come at all.
And often over our sewing,
As I and my neighbour sit
We gossip over this story
That never had end to it,
