To--Morrow. Poem by Henry Alford

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.