Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,
That endless siege of bitter barren days
That fate can use to meter out her sorrow
In endless empty tragedies replayed.
What consolation is there in such strife
That mocks the humble hopes of haggard men?
When sombrous sorrow permeates glad life
What further sadness does such grief portend?
What future then can lay in ruined wake
Of this quotidian misery,
And from prosaic life what can fate take
To rob me of abased destiny?
Oh nothing, save your fond and gentle grace
And gentle smile, which can all woe disgrace.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.