Tomorrow.
Oh, for a Master-hand, to paint "To-morrow."
What would my picture be?
A fair, sweet scene, where sin and sorrow
None could ever see.
-There would be vast mountains, many hills,
For these mean Fame and Glory;
Stretches of woodland, running rills,
Like bits of rythm in story.
I would touch the clouds with a roseate hue,
Or the silver line reveal;
The sky should ne'er darken—'twould be all blue;
And then. I would softly steal
From the placid lake its depth and tint,
And paint the soul of song
That filled the throats of the birds, and print
Fond memories all along
The banks of my shelving river-side,
With its rocks for Power and Strength
That would never fail, and a certain pride
In good deeds; and then at length
My pencil would reach the dainty flowers,
Whose perfume rare and sweet,
What would my picture be?
A fair, sweet scene, where sin and sorrow
None could ever see.
-There would be vast mountains, many hills,
For these mean Fame and Glory;
Stretches of woodland, running rills,
Like bits of rythm in story.
I would touch the clouds with a roseate hue,
Or the silver line reveal;
The sky should ne'er darken—'twould be all blue;
And then. I would softly steal
From the placid lake its depth and tint,
And paint the soul of song
That filled the throats of the birds, and print
Fond memories all along
The banks of my shelving river-side,
With its rocks for Power and Strength
That would never fail, and a certain pride
In good deeds; and then at length
My pencil would reach the dainty flowers,
Whose perfume rare and sweet,
—25—
