Sonnet XXXVIII: The Morrow's Message
“Thou Ghost,” I said, “and is thy name To—day?—
Yesterday’s son, with such an abject brow!—
And can To—morrow be more pale than thou?”
While yet I spoke, the silence answered: “Yea,
Henceforth our issue is all grieved and grey,
And each beforehand makes such poor avow
As of old leaves beneath the budding bough
Or night—drift that the sundawn shreds away.”
Then cried I: “Mother of many malisons,
O Earth, receive me to thy dusty bed!”
But therewithal the tremulous silence said:
“Lo! Love yet bids thy lady greet thee once:—
Yea, twice,—whereby thy life is still the sun’s;
And thrice,—whereby the shadow of death is dead.”
