To-morrow

To-morrow — 'tis an idle sound,
Tell me of no such dreary thing —
A new land whither I am bound
After strange wandering.

What care I if bright blossoms there
Unfold, and sunny be the field;
If laded boughs in summer air
Their pulpy fruitage yield?

While deck to-day my pleasant bower
Upon my own loved mountain-side
The azure periwinkle-flower,
And violet deep-eyed?

Tell me not of to-morrow — calm
In His great hand I would abide
Who fills my present hour with balm,
And trust, whate'er betide.