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,
Should 'waken the senses through all the hours,
To heighten the charms, replete
With all that we looked for, listened and prayed
And trusted for many years;
There should not be a wish unstayed,
A promise broken, nor tears;
Nothing but gladness and hopes fulfilled,
Health—all weariness gone;
And over these joys such a peace instilled,
It would linger 'til following dawn.
And then I would paint the golden strands
That drifts in some lives through—
Faith and Purpose and willing hands,
No matter what burdens bestrew.
The morning star and the shimmering sun,
And the moonlight's softened ray,
Would, when the dawning morn begun,
Be mingled into day.
At the threshold of Finis I would quietly pause,
And carefully dip my brush
Into my paint, to wipe out the cause
Of estrangement; and then through the hush night
Of a silence that falls with the twilight,
A pair of worn hands should enclasp,
And the chasm that yawned thro' the darkened
Be bridged with that earnest grasp.
I would hear the voice, and paint the smile
That rested on each face;
And over the summer air the while,
An angels' hand should trace
"Understood," "Forgiven," "Friends for aye,"
And the links would bind so strong,
That never on earth nor in the sky
Could break with wrong or song.
I would paint every heart as a little child's—
As pure as the morning dew,
And as glad as when summer hours beguiles
With its sweetness and sunny hue,
This same wee one to its happy play,
Away from all thought of care.
I would paint to-morrow's coming day
With joys for all to share.
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,
Should 'waken the senses through all the hours,
To heighten the charms, replete
With all that we looked for, listened and prayed
And trusted for many years;
There should not be a wish unstayed,
A promise broken, nor tears;
Nothing but gladness and hopes fulfilled,
Health—all weariness gone;
And over these joys such a peace instilled,
It would linger 'til following dawn.
And then I would paint the golden strands
That drifts in some lives through—
Faith and Purpose and willing hands,
No matter what burdens bestrew.
The morning star and the shimmering sun,
And the moonlight's softened ray,
Would, when the dawning morn begun,
Be mingled into day.
At the threshold of Finis I would quietly pause,
And carefully dip my brush
Into my paint, to wipe out the cause
Of estrangement; and then through the hush night
Of a silence that falls with the twilight,
A pair of worn hands should enclasp,
And the chasm that yawned thro' the darkened
Be bridged with that earnest grasp.
I would hear the voice, and paint the smile
That rested on each face;
And over the summer air the while,
An angels' hand should trace
"Understood," "Forgiven," "Friends for aye,"
And the links would bind so strong,
That never on earth nor in the sky
Could break with wrong or song.
I would paint every heart as a little child's—
As pure as the morning dew,
And as glad as when summer hours beguiles
With its sweetness and sunny hue,
This same wee one to its happy play,
Away from all thought of care.
I would paint to-morrow's coming day
With joys for all to share.